


Silently As Time Passing

by Kei on Ice (Maki_Kei), Mr_Beans



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: A Little Bit of all Musical genres tbh, Alternate Universe - Music, Chubby Katsuki Yuuri, Classical Music, Illustrated, Jazz Music, Long-Haired Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Character Tags to be Added - Freeform, POV Victor Nikiforov, Pining, Poetic, Pop music, Puppy Love, References to various music, Single POV, There's Just Lots of Music, This has an accompanying soundtrack, Victor and Chris act gay as fuck, Violinist!Chris, Violinist!Yuuri, Violist!Viktor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2018-10-22 21:36:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10705602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maki_Kei/pseuds/Kei%20on%20Ice, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mr_Beans/pseuds/Mr_Beans
Summary: Viktor swallows. Then, with a shaky exhale, he leans into the mic, “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.”Someone gives a loud gasp, “Oh my god, is that Viktor Nikiforov?” And then the sound of his name ripples through the audience.“That’s the famous Russian violist, right?”“That's Viktor! Didn’t he give up the violin?”Viktor laughs awkwardly, “Ha-ha… yes, that’s me. I’m sorry to interrupt your evening. I’ll be brief. I just have something to say to someone, and I’m bad with words. So, bear with me.” He props the violin against his left shoulder, pinches it into place with his chin, and closes his eyes.Viktor takes a deep breath, then lifts the bow to the strings.





	1. It Was Fascination, I Know

**Author's Note:**

> This unintentionally massive project was spurred on by a prompt that was anonymously sent to Randomsplashes [here](https://alexakei.tumblr.com/post/158332755170/yuri-on-ice-violonist-au-yuri-is-a-street)
> 
>  
> 
> Although it was a short prompt, it has somehow been single-handedly the most fun Beans and I have had writing together in a long time. It has become very special to us both, and we hope you will all enjoy it as well!  
> Thank you to my English Major mother for helping us edit this mess! :)
> 
> (One more fun fact before you begin, we have meticulously hidden references to various music throughout the decades within this piece, some are hidden very well and others are direct and rather obvious quotes. If you spot a reference, feel free to hit us up in the comments with songs you think we've used lines, names, or references from!)

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

> _I was raised on music, learning how to think it, to breathe it, to feel it, to bring it forth from my heart and translate it out through my fingertips. I have heard it fill ancient halls built to carry nothing else but music, watched it dance across an outdoor venue created with no other intent than to bring life to an otherwise dull and quiet city. I carry it with me, always thinking of it, wanting to hear more, spreading my own sound across the world through Russia, lulling it against China, skipping it across Italy, even teaching it to dance with Brazil. With my hands alone, I have filled the world with more music than many would ever dream to hear. My ears seek the sound of it in every place I ventured, loving every note. From the long and complicated sound of Tartini’s Devil’s Trill, to the simple hum of a mother’s nursery rhyme. Even listening to nature herself, rain on the foggy midnight streets of London, or the warm and loud sounds of Chatuchak market, I thought that this was all that one could hope to hear. To know the world inside and out, for all the songs she sang to me. I thought that I knew what it was to truly feel music, to let it fill you up like air, running through your body as if your soul were dancing, hearing things more beautiful than any one image could appear to the eye, being brought to tears by sound so mournful that even the sky cried._
> 
> _And yet, nothing has taught my heart to sing more than the simple sound of a violin played to a busy city street._
> 
> Виктор Никифоров 21~Август

 

 _  
_ Viktor’s gaze darts up from the small leather book that rests in front of him, tapping his pen to the glass of the tabletop. He breathes in the scent of fresh muffins and coffee wafting through the doors of the cafe beside him, but not even that can distract him from his daily routine. At 4 o’clock sharp, he comes to this exact shop to order coffee and a pastry, walks out onto the pavilion, sits at the same table, and directs his attention across the street. He pushes back his sleeve, reading the 24 karat-gold watch, which is telling him the same as what his phone had told him less than thirty seconds before.

 

_4:15 p.m._

 

Viktor lifts the porcelain cup to his lips, humming something in a three-quarter tempo, counting it out in his head as the fingers on his left hand tap out the melody. He barely registers just how insane he must look. Really though, after a month of repeating the same routine, who cares?

Between the hours of four and six, Viktor waits. Sitting patiently every day at the same cafe, often in a dirty or wet chair, in perhaps not the safest part of town, he looks at a brick wall tagged with several words in fat-lettered graffiti. His coffee is never quite as good as what he could make in his own kitchen, and the muffins are lacking in one or two basic ingredients. He is sitting in the shade on a chilly day, and for what? Not the decor, that’s for sure.

Viktor checks his watch again, feeling sure it must have been two hours since he last checked.

 

_4:16 P.M._

 

Why does time move so slow? Viktor turns his muffin over, picking a blueberry off and piling it on the plate with the other five he’s already discarded. Why does he do this to himself? Why should he, Viktor Nikiforov, be here the middle of nowhere New York? The back alley of a back alley. And for what - music.

 _It’s always music, isn’t it?_ Viktor sighs to himself. There are more songs in his head than people he’s met in his entire life. There’s music on his phone, and sitting on his bookshelf in every media -- CD’s, tapes, vinyl -- enough sounds for days, months, years. Music enough to fill the world, and yet....

A month ago, Viktor had walked down a street he could not remember taking before, feeling somewhat lost, and searching for… well, anything really. He doesn’t particularly care what, or to where he goes. He has time to kill, and always uses it to search the city he’s currently found himself in.

Ahead of him, Viktor had heard the sound of a violin. The music had echoed over and through the street, taking Viktor by the ear and slowly guiding him closer. With each step, he had felt the music getting louder, luring him in, wrapping it’s fingers around his shirt and tugging on it like an impatient lover. It ghosted around his ears, glided down his back, quick notes that are increasing in speed as if to match his pace, sliding down the strings and then bouncing back to furiously high notes.

Viktor was running now, his confused but excited dog hot on his heels, panting excitedly for the new adventure. It had been clear Viktor was in a hurry, as people clear a path for him; that, or they simply don’t want to be barreled down by the tall Russian, running like a man on a mission.

He had turned a corner and came to a complete stop, gasping. It’s one thing to hear the song, light and quick, seductive and enchanting. It’s another thing entirely to see the one performing it. The man doesn’t just _play_ music, doesn’t drag the bow over strings, he feels it with all of his being. Rolling his shoulders, tapping his feet as if trying not to dance, lithe arms pulling his whole upper half into an up and down sway with the rhythm. His eyes closed, his glasses propped atop his head as though he’s forgotten them, so completely and incredibly lost in his own sound.

Viktor has been coming by ever since, though he’s not sure exactly why. Is it how the musician plays like it is all he knows? Is it the lightning quick fingers, tapping out notes as if it’s nothing more than a warm up? Or perhaps, it’s the shy smile, following the bow at the end, as he lets out a polite, “Thank you.” For every bill that falls into his violin case, Viktor assumes it must be a little of everything. He’s been trying to find a reason to stop coming back for weeks, yet he still finds himself in this chair, time after time, picking off blueberries just for a chance to see the beautiful man pick up his bow and play.

 

_4:17 P.M._

 

Time is not on his side. _No, it is not_ , Viktor decides. He huffs a sigh, pulling a bite off the muffin and noting that this time there is too much sugar -- this batch might actually complement the bitter blueberries they use in abundance. Viktor toys with the idea of getting up and finding something worth eating elsewhere, only to remember that if he wants the optimal place to watch from afar without being noticed, he’ll have to pretend to be a customer -- even if that means paying for overpriced and poorly baked muffins.

Viktor’s phone lights up, showing a new message. With a leisurely swipe of his thumb, he unlocks the phone and lazily opens the message from Chris. It’s a picture of Chris's hand on the foot of a wine glass with no words attached. Undoubtedly, an invitation to Chris's penthouse for drinks and small talk. Viktor responds by moving his coffee into the sliver of light that’s made its way onto his table, twisting his wrist at just the right angle for his fingers to sit around the handle artistically, taking a picture that gives off a demure, “Perhaps later. I have plans.” Viktor sips from the cup as the image sends, remembering this coffee doesn’t taste as good as it smells.

Another message reads, “But I’m so lonely,” tacked on a picture of Chris lounging back, looking upside down into the camera, his lower lip in a small pout. Viktor smiles, kicking his chair to the side so he sits in the light. Holding his phone at arm's length, slightly below eye level, he sips his coffee while looking down at the camera with an unsympathetic expression and snapping a picture. He sends it, attached to the message:

“Isn’t it too early to be drinking?” Viktor puts his phone down, and places the coffee on its plate, waiting for Chris's reply.

The soft sound of an open A string sings behind Viktor, and all at once he’s forgotten everything else. It is as if the world is standing still, leaving only him and the familiar sound of a violin being held by competent hands. Viktor’s head turns, looking across the street, past the cars and people, to the little cobbled corner where a young man stands. Viktor holds his breath, almost afraid to make too much noise for fear that it would distort the rich sounds of the man warming up his instrument.

Viktor opens his phone again, flicking through apps to open the camera and setting it to record, then sits as quietly as he can manage, watching with baited breath as [the musician begins his first song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JaGobcJLjqQ) His shy expression turns down as the music takes over. The man’s voice sings through the wooden body of the old violin. His head tilts down -- a small polite bow -- as someone drops money into the blue, crushed-velvet case, never once missing a beat. Viktor can't look away, completely absorbed in the sound of it, taking quick notes in his notebook. The music feels intoxicating.

Viktor can swear the passage is physically touching him, teasing him for sitting so far away, luring him in, telling him to get closer. Every day, the call seems louder, like a siren inviting him to the bottom of the sea to drown. The stars sparkle above, taunting him for being unable to reach them, and yet, he feels it kiss it's wicked way up his neck, settling behind his ears.

 _Sing with me, Viktor_ , the music pleads. _Take me with you forever_ , it hums.

Viktor wants to obey its every whim, wants to let the notes wash over him. It sounds rich as chocolate and saturated as rain. Viktor glides his fingers through the long silky strands of his own silver bangs -- well, the few that have broken free from the tight, uniformly-pulled bun under his beanie. He closes his eyes, imagining the tug of it to be the same as the drag of bow hair over strings. He feels himself melting through his seat and into the ground below, while also silently cursing into the wind because of the noise of the busy street, an obstruction between him and the sensual notes that are becoming lost on their journey to his ears.

The man plays as if he knows how it affects Viktor, hitting chords that resonate deep in Viktor’s gut. He can’t sit still anymore, he can’t keep himself away. His heart will snap if he doesn’t obey the music. Today is the day. Today, he will walk to the street performer and tell him how wonderful he is.

Viktor drinks the rest of his coffee down like a shot, shoving his phone in his pocket and tossing out his muffin. He can do it this time. He’s done far more frightening things than this. He’s talked to people who hated him before, people with actual malicious intent. So how hard could it be to simply smile at a stranger? To drop his usual hundred dollars into the case himself, and tell the stranger, “I love your music.” It should be easy, simple, and clean.

Viktor flicks a generous tip on the table, waltzing down the street to the crosswalk. As he walks, he thinks of what he’ll say in his head, repeating it over and over, feeling it’s silly and that he’ll sound pretentious. So, he won’t say anything. He’ll just drop off the money. That’s easy. He can talk to the man next week. That isn’t hard. Baby steps, in fact. Viktor watches the light over the street, waiting impatiently for it to change.

 _Walk up, put the money down, keep walking_ , Viktor can totally do this this.

The man’s head tilts up, his dark eyes passing over Viktor’s, sending a chill through him.

The light changes, signaling that it’s safe to cross. Viktor turns a one-eighty, walking the opposite direction and moving much quicker away from the musician than he had when walking towards him. The staccato of the man’s bow is laughing at his cowardice, fading as he walks away, as if dismissing him.

 _I knew you couldn’t handle me_ , it mocks.

Viktor shoves his hands in his pockets, feeling the guilt trip harder than he should. Why is he such a coward? What is it about this man that leaves him running away? Why does he love something so much that he can’t speak to the hands that perform it? What is different about this artist that makes it impossible to speak to him?

The busker plays until 7pm, while Viktor hovers around the street, until he can resettle himself at the cafe’s table, buying an italian sub with too much dressing. If he cared, Viktor would have noticed the man at the register, giving him suspicious looks. However, Viktor doesn’t care, as a matter of fact. He sits and listens, letting his heart ache, and scolding it for wanting something he keeps running away from.

A little girl asks her mother if they can give money to the violinist. Though the mother objects, Viktor passes the child the money he’d meant to give, wrapping the hundred in a couple of ones, hopefully to keep the child from planning to keep it. Viktor watches the mother and her daughter delivering the tip, beaming at the man’s courteous bow, and playful song -- quick, high, and bubbly -- making the child laugh. If he could safely convince strangers to throw more money into the case at once, he would. But, as it is, he’d only give small change and the occasional fifty or hundred.

The whole situation is maddening. Why can’t Viktor just do it himself? All he wants to do is talk music with this man, ask if he might want to give him pointers, to teach Viktor where he learned to play so freely. Talking about music should be as easy as breathing. What is so different about the way this man plays that it makes Viktor feel intimidated?

Viktor grabs the paper from his sandwich and crumples it, tossing it into the garbage can a bit too aggressively before standing. He knows all of the man’s songs by heart. As the hands on his watch hit seven, and he hears the current song drawing to a close, he also knows it’s about time for him to be heading home. He walks in silence, all the while mentally kicking himself for spending yet another day not being able to face the performer. Taking out his phone, Viktor types in a quick prompt and hits send.

 

> To Chris: _Still up for drinks?_

He doesn’t have to wait to know the answer, already heading in the direction of Chris's penthouse. It’s not that big a difference from heading to his own home anyway, given they live in the same part of town.

 

> From Chris: _Yeah buddy, literally any time. You have dropped by unannounced before, so.…_
> 
> To Chris: _I don’t like to be rude... unlike some people._
> 
> From Chris: _Whoever could you mean, darling?_
> 
> To Chris: _Well, there are only two of us here. Besides, I wouldn’t want to walk in on anything compromising... unlike last time._
> 
> From Chris: _I told you, the sink exploded! We were only changing into dry clothes. I’d never be so crass._
> 
> To Chris: _Sure, sure._

Viktor discards his phone into his pocket, no longer seeing the use of it as he approaches the double doors of Chris's apartment building.

“Hey Daniel,” Viktor waves to the doorman, who returns the gesture with a grin accompanying a slight head-bow. He walks through the building and heads up to the fourteenth floor, venturing forth the long, red-carpeted hallway. Reaching a hand forward, Viktor pulls open the door to Chris's apartment and waltzes right in. He tosses his beanie on the counter inside, setting down his sunglasses, and draping his coat over a chair. He makes his way over to the back balcony, yanking out the scrunchy that’s holding his hair in a bun against his scalp, letting it fall and pool over his shoulders.

“Evening, my prince,” Chris says flirtatiously, sitting up from where he’d been relaxing on his chaise lounge and propping his sunglasses on the top of his head.

“Chris, what do I do?” Viktor asks, falling onto the couch next to Chris and letting himself crumple into his friend’s lap, head resting with one cheek against Chris's thighs.

“About?” Chris brings white wine to his lips, taking a short sip before placing the glass on the coffee table beside him. With his hands free, Chris laces together strands of Viktor’s hair and begins braiding it.

“I just can’t do it! I have no idea what’s wrong with me,” Viktor says.

“Oh, that. Hon, why does this man intimidate you so much that you can’t even pay him yourself, day after day?” Chris chuckles.

“I’ve been asking myself the same thing,” Viktor says. “Why is it so hard for me to approach him? I’ve talked to other musicians before.”

“Well, what’s different about _this_ musician?”

“He’s a street performer.” Viktor turns his face and grumbles into Chris's lap, “I'm famous, and whenever I try to talk to street performers they always have this idea in their head that I'm so much better, and I'm not. I just don't want to come off as too strong.”

“Viktor, you are the perfume section of a mall. Everything about you comes off as too strong,” Chris teases.

“That’s exactly the problem! I just want to talk music with him. Possibly ask him to give me pointers. How can I do that when he’ll believe he has nothing to offer me?” Viktor says. “I’m too publicized. All I want to do is be a normal person to him. I’m just too famous.”

Chris snorts at how petty the line sounds. And yet, coming from Viktor’s mouth, it also sounds like a genuine crisis. “Obviously not in your street clothes and beanie. How many hours have you sat on that corner without being noticed?”

“Three hours every day.” Viktor sits up, his hair slipping from Chris's fingers with the motion. “That’s it! It’s that easy!”

“You’re welcome?” Chris rolls his eyes.

“Oh, Chris. I could kiss you!” Viktor jumps up.

“Well, nothing’s stopping you,” Chris says with a chuckle. Viktor presses a kiss to the tips of his fingers, then pokes Chris's face with it. “Eh, good enough.”

“Oh, but how do I approach him in the first place?” Viktor taps his index finger to his lips in contemplation.

“Well, you record all his songs,” Chris begins, then laughs. “And even without those recordings, you know them all by heart. You’re a Violist. Make a damn accompaniment and surprise him.”

“I’ll make an accompaniment,” Viktor decides, as though it were his idea.

“What did I just say?” Chris doesn’t mind though. He dismisses his own comment with a sarcastic sigh and wave of his hand.

“Ah, but I am so nervous. My heart is pounding even now, just thinking about it.” Viktor grabs his chest dramatically, swooning back into the couch.

“Pretend I’m him,” Chris suggests.

“But you’re too tall,” Viktor grumbles.

“Operative word being _pretend_ , Viktor.”

“Okay fine, I’ll try.”

“Great.” Chris claps his hands together, standing swiftly and going inside.

“Where are you running off to?” Viktor asks, standing up to follow him.

“No, no. You stay there, I’ll be right back,” Chris says. The couch joins Viktor in breathing out a huff of air as his body presses back into the cushions. Viktor smooths his palms against the tight denim of the skinny jeans clinging to his knees. A few minutes pass, and he starts at the sound of an A string being played, whipping his head around to watch Chris tune. The notes to a familiar song begins to reverberate off the stucco and glass of the building behind them, and the corners of Viktor’s mouth is immediately drawn down as he recognizes the tune.

“He wouldn’t play that sort of song,” Viktor complains.

“I bet kids hate you,” Chris laughs. “Show some imagination.”

“It’s hard when you’re playing a song that’s so,” Viktor pauses, gesturing his hands towards Chris, “you.”

“Okay then. What song do _you_ suggest I play?” Chris lowers the violin to his side, placing his other hand atop his hip, bow hanging at the frog from his middle finger.

“La Campanella?” Viktor puts his hands to his face in mock excitement, looking like a child anticipating a present.

The corner of Chris's mouth turns up in apprehension.“Too light, and piano heavy. It’ll sound too empty as just a violin solo.”

“Picky,” Viktor scoffs. “You’re a first violin. Any piece where you’re not playing the whole time sounds ‘too empty’ to you.”

“What can I say?” Chris shrugs pretentiously.

“Fine. Just play the solo parts from Vivaldi’s Winter then. That’s thick enough for you,” Viktor says, knowing full well how much Chris enjoys playing songs that are heavier, with lots of string crossings and double stops.

Chris smiles, “Now we’re talking.” He lifts his violin into the air, setting it gently onto his shoulder in one dramatic, swooping motion. [The notes start](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TZCfydWF48c), quick and breathy, icy and eerie. The hair brushes against the stings in ties, two notes at a time, each short but still using the entire length of his bow. It’s practiced, natural, and uniform. Then, Chris’s full body expression soon melts from his signature stoic disposition, his bow halting right before hitting the quick progressions, and his eyes turning incredulously towards Viktor, “This isn’t a private concert.”

“Oh, right.” Viktor’s head pops up. “Sorry, I got distracted. Uh, what was I supposed to do again?”

Chris swats at Viktor with his bow. “No wonder you can’t talk to men!”

“I’m only kidding.” Viktor stands, placing a hand on his chin. “But if this is going to work,” Viktor says, fetching Chris's case from indoors, then returning to splay it out on the ground, “you have to have your case open like this, and you have to stand like this.” Viktor, repositioning Chris, adds, “And, you need to put on your glasses.” He grabs Chris’s glasses from where he’d had them fastened to his shirt collar and hands them over.

Chris flicks open his thin-wired frames and props them on his nose. “How’s this?” Chris says, exasperated by Viktor’s antics.

“Fine,” Viktor nods his head a few times. “Okay, go.”

“Viktor-”

“I can’t pretend If you use my name. He has no idea who I am,” Viktor interrupts.

“Ah,” Chris chuckles. “Hello handsome stranger. Pass me my wine?”

“Oh! Here.” Viktor reaches back to grab the wine, handing it to Chris, who takes his violin by the neck and his bow at the nut in one hand, as he downs the wine with the other.

“Now, do as you normally do,” Chris says, handing the empty glass back.

Viktor sets it down with a nod. “Okay.” Viktor begins walking away, briefly looking back to make eye contact with Chris, before continuing to walk away again.

“I now see where the problem lies,” Chris sighs.

“Why aren’t you playing?” Viktor starts walking back. “This isn’t going to work if you don’t act the part.”

With a roll of his eyes and hefty sigh, Chris pulls the wooden body under his chin, beginning again from where he left off, watching Viktor all the while. Viktor is standing inside now, somewhere near the front door, his hands over his mouth and squinting. “You can’t look at me! I’ll lose my nerves!” Viktor calls. Chris rolls his eyes again, spinning on his heel with a flourish, pretending as if Viktor is not merely across the room, or even in his vacinity for that matter.

The quick sharp notes sing across the balcony, dancing through the chill air as it had been written to do. They become a storm on the peaceful evening skyline, and Chris finds himself admiring the view, the evening, and his company -- even if said company is still psyching himself up to interact with, “not Chris”. His eyes drift closed, feeling the melody fly from the strings with the passion they deserved.

A sound of shuffling calls Chris to attention, and he turns to lift his gaze to where Viktor should be, finding that Viktor is still across the room, anxiously pulling out the braid in his hair. A soft body rubs against Chris’s legs instead, her giant fluffy tail curling around him as if asking, “be a dear and pet me?” Chris smiles down at his cat, turning the grin towards the lost Viktor. The music fades to a halt.

“Would you like conversational openers?” Chris calls, crouching to stroke his fingers through Sweetpea’s sweet and fluffy fur.

“I wouldn’t mind them,” Viktor relents, giving a grateful expression.

“Tell me how you feel about my playing.”

“I’ll sound like a creepy fan.”

“Then… talk about violins to me.”

“I’ll sound like a know it all.”

“...Ask me out to coffee and see how it goes?” Chis finally settles, with a huff of exasperation.

“What if he hates coffee,” Viktor laments, running his fingers through his bangs. Chris gives Viktor an incredulous expression.

“Viktor, dear, coffee never means ‘coffee’,” Chris clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “It means, ‘Hey sexy, I don’t know what to say but give me half a minute and maybe something will come to mind’.”

Viktor gives a theatrical sigh in a beautiful G#, throwing himself onto the chaise lounge beside the bookshelves, and lay his wrist across his eyes, his hair pooling around his head and cascading down the edge of the cushion, “You can’t ask music out for coffee, Chris,” Viktor exclaims melodramatically. “I just want to know where he learned to play, where he got his beautiful rhythm.”

Chris shakes his head at the pathetic soul draped over his furniture, “What is it about his playing that compels you so?” Chris bends to return his instrument to its case, looking Viktor over as he calmly loosens the bow strings by the nut.

“It’s just.…” Viktor reaches above him, his hands curving around an invisible face, lids closing as if anticipating a kiss. “His hands, they play like lightning, his sound almost impossible. I hear him, and it is as if I am struck by that lighting. The gods themselves are thundering their indescribably beautiful sound upon me. Filling me, consuming me, destroying me… in a way no mortal man was ever meant to experience,” Viktor finishes, his hands resting now on his heart, where they stay, pressed flat to feel the tempo of his being.

“You missed your calling, clearly you should have gone into drama over music as your major.” Chris scoffs. Viktor turns to him, giving a languid expression that looks tired and distant.

“Chris, if you could hear him... Then you would understand.” Viktor sighs. Chris closes his violin case, and then picks it up as he makes his way to Viktor, leaning the red Cordura stark against the white of the furniture, and sitting himself above Viktor’s head. He pats his lap briskly, though Viktor needs no such instruction, already laying his face across Chris without it.

Chris takes Viktor’s hair between his fingers, combing through the tangles of the day, and once again braiding it together, starting from the crown and working back in quick, practiced, french braids.

“What do I do?” Viktor asks once more, repeating their scene in a perfect Deja Vu.

“Put on your beanie, walk up to him without a word, and do what you do best.” Chris advises. Sweetpea leaps from the floor to curl into the curve of Viktor’s back, as her optimal lap position is currently occupied. Chris gives her chin a little scratch, cooing at her softly.

“Chris, have I ever told you that you are gorgeous?”

“Yes, but it stands repeating,” Chris hums. The silence carries for a moment, then Viktor continues.

“Gorgeous, and yet, a crazy cat lady,” Viktor says, as if proof of something.

“At least I don’t smell like wet dog.” Chris retorts.

“Diva.”

“Dog breath,” Chris cuts back, making Viktor laugh and at last relax into the evening. “Wine or champagne?”

“Alfredo pasta, and Cloud Atlas.”

“This can be arranged,” Chris laughs.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Viktor takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and reciting to himself exactly what he is planning on doing. This time, he has to follow through. This time, he can’t chicken out. People pass without a second glance towards the stranger leaning against a wall, people for _once_ not turning their heads to gasp, or walking up to shake his hand. Chris is right, Viktor is invisible, there is nothing to fear.

In the very back of Viktor’s mind, however, he hears exactly what to fear. A stage where he's confident and proud, playing to his heart's content. Music flowing from him, flying quickly and precisely, drowning out any other sounds to dare cross his mind. The warmth and elation of applause resound. Then, just off the side where they thought they wouldn’t be heard, the sound of a scoff.

“ _Show off_.”

His eyes shoot open, letting the breath go. He can’t do it. He can’t possibly try to play in front of someone he wants to learn from, he’d end up showing off, the man would get mad. People always get mad at him when he plays better than them, but god does he want to! He wants to play beside that man, and learn from his graceful fingers. What is he meant to do? His heart beats hard in his chest with fear, and yet he wants to do this -- he has wanted to do this for weeks! He can’t chicken out, just as much as he can’t make himself go through with this.

There has to be an easier way! Viktor can hear the music being played, can step in at any moment now, even as he stands from afar, he thinks of how to play the accompaniment. It’s so easy, all he’s ever really known, simple as breathing. Yet, for some reason, he chokes. It's so much easier to run, to walk away, he has done it countless times already.

Viktor gives a defeated sigh, bending down to pick up his checkered viola case from against the painted brick. He is useless, helpless, and beyond stupid. To think he could, even for a moment, be able to play by this stranger he admires is preposterous. Of course he’d walk away, that’s what he does every time.

Then Viktor stops.

 _Just do it you fool. If not now, then when?_ Viktor turns again, taking a deep breath, _You’re Viktor Nikiforov, you don’t run from anything. It will only take five seconds of courage._

With every step, his brain shoots off warnings, his heart thumps hard in his chest, his hands shake as he makes his way towards the music. Every thought to cross his mind is another one begging him to stop, to not make a fool of himself, to please god just walk away. Viktor finally tells his brain to shut it.

The light changes, and Viktor’s shoes click on asphalt as he crosses the road. The street musician is closer now than Viktor has ever dreamt he’d be. He can see every detail blurred from a distance; aged jeans, glasses so thick they magnified the eyes behind them, fingerless mittens with a poodle stitched on the back -- a novelty that could only be hand made. His expressions are so fluid up close, so intense, and so real. Viktor feels like he's meeting a celebrity, suddenly stepping to a halt, gawking at the person he’d only ever stared at for a month, but is still somehow floored to be this close.

 _His face is so soft and kind, a little round like the rest of him. All of him is inviting_. Viktor swallows dryly, looking over the man playing before him, his mind going completely blank as he simply observes. Chestnut brown eyes rise to meet his, a small grin blooming on pale lips.

“Do you play?” His voice is gentle and sweet, a delicate tenor. Viktor wonders if the man sings as well, only to suddenly snap back to reality, realizing he’d been standing and staring for far too long. His cheeks burn as he fakes a cocky grin, pushing the alarm in his brain that is currently set to simply scream, _YOU’RE AN IDIOT_ into the back of his mind, in order to search for other words. No words come to mind. His plan had never included talking, and Chris hadn’t taught him what to say. Besides, Viktor currently doesn’t have the english to communicate what he is thinking. If, that is, he’s in fact thinking at all. So to answer with as much grace as he can muster, Viktor simply nods.

“Violin or viola?” The performer gestures to the instrument case hanging from Viktor’s shoulders. How can this man be so cohesive in this moment, when all Viktor can do is panic on the inside?

“Viola.” Viktor shrugs his instrument off and lifts it, as if to show the stranger.

“That’s amazing! I’ve never met a Violist.” The man politely smiles, tipping his head to the side. Viktor never knew a face could be so perfect.

“Would you like to?” Viktor smacks the inside of his skull with his brain, groaning internally. He has to save this, reaching out a hand, “I’m Vi- uh, Makka.” It is just not Viktor's day today. The man blinks, laughing a little to himself.

“Run that by me again?”

“Sorry, my name is Makka.” Viktor smiles, but feels more like cursing. Could he be more awkward?

“Oh!” The man laughs, taking his bow with his left hand and reaching forward to shake Viktor’s with his right. “I’m Yuuri. Pleased to meet you.” What a beautifully fitting name for an absolutely beautiful person.

 _Yuuri -_ Viktor wants to say it again and again, reciting it like a poem, singing it like a lullaby.

“I’m curious, what one would sound like.”

“What?” Viktor hums, blinking back to the conversation.

“What a viola sounds like.” Yuuri clarifies.

_Oh, of course!_

“I have a minute, I can show you, if you don’t mind me interrupting your performance.” Viktor’s hand still holds Yuuri’s, and is now aware that he’s shaking in the other man’s grip. Viktor pulls away, praying he hadn’t noticed.

“By all means.” Yuuri waves, taking a step back and offering Viktor a spot on the sidewalk as if it were a stage. Viktor begs his hands to stop shaking, clumsily fumbling with the latch that his fingers were more familiar with than even the belt he wore every day.

Why did this stranger make him -- music legend Viktor Nikiforov -- nervous? How is a warm, curious smile, more terrifying than facing a music hall filled to the pipes with music critics and fans? Even having his bow in his hands doesn't chase his tremor away as he tightens it. Thankfully, however, the moment that sleek and familiar wooden body touches his fingers, Viktor feels his power return. Not so much chasing the fear away, as stopping its growth. He could die here, but at least he’d die playing a fitting song.

With fingers quick and practiced, Viktor taps out a quick warm up scale, playing each note precisely and clearly. Yuuri nods, tapping his dirty old sneakers to the familiar four-four rhythm, then lifts his violin once more, fiddling a dancing melody around Viktor's basic notes, all while giving Viktor a jolly smile. Why does this make Viktor blush?

Viktor changes the song, choosing something with a higher tempo, a pop song Yuuri likes playing now and then, a song Viktor knows Yuuri will respond to. [ _Honey, I'm good_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Go7gn6dugu0) [.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Go7gn6dugu0&list=PL41Evg_v_Nbaf29R7HwaHefzTyM-Tg08i&index=7)

The moment he hears the opening, Yuuri beames, seeming to bounce a little as he continues to tap the sped up four-four rhythm. Waiting a moment before jumping in, Yuuri's fingers play the violin like a fiddle, letting the strings screech just a little, making notes high and quick, practically dancing as he pulls his bow, energy seeping out of him and into the passers by.

Viktor hadn't noticed that they had a crowd until the chorus where Yuuri takes a break to marvel at Viktor's hands, smiling and clapping to keep rhythm, suddenly turning to the people loitering and encouraging them to clap along. Viktor laughs as Yuuri skips forward, moving his feet in an imitation of river dancing, his bow behind his back as Viktor plays the last few notes. Yuuri lets the beat carry, encouraging onlookers to keep clapping it out, his smile so wide it spreads to Viktor, who really can't say what he is smiling for.

 _One-and, two-and, three-and, four-and_ , Viktor picks up the chorus smooth and clean, then quicker than an untrained eye could register, Yuuri shoots off rapid notes accenting Viktor's melody. Transforming the original into what could honestly have been it's own song, especially with so many perfectly placed accents and flairs tacked on, that Viktor literally feels like a second fiddle.

 _Well, that won't do at all_.

Viktor slips into the higher octave, playing a high, twinkling parody of the melody, “Nah, nah, honey I'm good.” Vikor slides down on the last note, bringing out an almost cello like quality to the sound, hearing the way Yuuri's violin dances and dares him to keep up with Viktor's own steps.

Yuuri picks up the chords Viktor has dropped, watching with a wide and curious expression as Viktor takes the solo Yuuri had made, and one ups him on every level. As they hit the bridge, Yuuri leaps to take his music back, offering the traditional elegance of Viktor's sounds, and teaching it to flirt its hips. His playing mingles with Viktor's as if rehearsed, tangling his music into Viktor's palm and lower back, guiding him into hay and straw as if to make him dance in ways he’d never dreamed of.

Yuuri seemingly takes him into step sequences just long enough for Viktor to learn them, before abruptly throwing Viktor into a showy dip. If Viktor was any other man on earth, that would have been it. He’d have to yield simply because he'd lost his place in the music, forced to simply watch Yuuri in awe. Unfortunately for Yuuri, this is not the case. It is as if Viktor has been holding back before, as new chords are being played now, complex notes that no one would think could complement such a basic melody, added in just for fun.

Viktor's wrist flies up and down the neck of his viola, taking Yuuri up on his own game and winning it. He can't remember the last time he's played like this, letting himself take the notes that he’d been taught were law, and bending them to his will. Stretching them past their abilities, and teaching them their new routine. The song is his now, speaking to his soul and singing out his fingers with a high and devoted energy. It dances it's heart out for Yuuri, and Yuuri alone, singing a message as it goes. It tells him how much Viktor loves the music Yuuri’s fingers play, and begs them to listen to Viktor's very best imitation.

It is not until the last note rings out across the corner that Viktor realizes how much bigger the crowd has gotten, spilling onto the street as a few people from the other side of the four way intersection have taken a moment to stand and stare. Viktor and Yuuri had even stopped traffic, car windows rolled down and phones from all over pointing in their direction. Someone starts clapping, and then the silence ripples into a wave of applause and cheers. Yuuri laughs, taking a dramatic bow, Viktor following with a chuckle in a proper straight tilt at the waist. People start tossing money into the open case, a few even stepping from cars to throw bills at them. They press in from all over, giving thanks and compliments as they come, before dissolving away into the streets once again. And then, just like that, they are gone. Yuuri and Viktor's fame lasts but a New York minute.

“That was... amazing!” Yuuri laughs heartedly. “YOU'RE amazing!” Viktor suddenly becomes very aware of his tongue, forgetting entirely how to use it. Yuuri turns away, looking down at the loot and checking his watch. “We made more in four minutes than I generally do in an hour!” Yuuri kneels, gathering the bills and shoving them haphazardly into his backpack, presumably to avoid theft from any passers bys. Viktor crouches to clean his own case, which to his surprise, is also filled with money. It looks wrong filled with bills, almost dirty, unprofessional. Without asking or really thinking twice, he tips the money into Yuuri's case, ignoring the shocked look the action earns him.

“Makka, I can't take that, half of this if yours,” Yuuri insists. Viktor stares blankly for a moment, having forgotten his fake name.

“I don't have anywhere to put it, just my viola case, and I’d rather not,” Viktor says. Yuuri's jaw drops.

“How about a bank?” Yuuri gasps, as if the idea of someone being so frivolous with money is physically painful.

“How about you take it home and count it out, then give it to me tomorrow?” Viktor suggests, privately hoping Yuuri would forget to bring him the money. Viktor has more than enough, and he in no way needs any more money. This is about the amount he would have been dropping in Yuuri's violin case anyway, so what does it matter if he just cuts to the chase?

“Will you be here tomorrow?” Yuuri asks suspiciously. Viktor has an overwhelming, unexplainable urge to squish those chubby cheeks around that tiny pout.

“Yes.” Viktor wouldn't miss it for the world.

“Good,” Yuuri beams, grabbing the last of his cash and shoving it in his bag. “I feel like the first violist I’ve met happens to the world's greatest violist.” Yuuri chuckles.

“Me? Nah, I'm just average.” Viktor waves his hands, trying not to freak out at how thrilling a compliment from Yuuri feels.

“Really? Where did you learn to play?” Yuuri gives him a suspicious expression.

“Juilliard,” Viktor answers without thinking, immediately regretting it as Yuuri’s eyes widen.

“JUILLIARD? Did you really just casually say you attended the most renowned school of music on the east coast!” Yuuri gasps.

“Yes?” Viktor feels a sudden need to run and hide.

“Viktor flipping _Nikiforov_ went to Juilliard! no wonder you think you’re not special, with a class full of the best of the best!” Yuuri exclaims.

“Y-yeah,” Viktor manages, quietly.

“Maybe you think you're nothing, but it's like saying you're in the last to cross the finish line, out of the first ten runners in the entire marathon. You are still way above average there, Makka,” Yuuri laughs. Viktor never had an inferiority complex before, but if he ever did, it was gone now.

“Thank you, Yuuri.” Viktor can't believe how good the name tastes, wishing to sample it again and again.

“That's pretty cool, meeting a professional on the street like this. Do you play in an Orchestra?” Yuuri asks.

“A quartet.” Viktor can't get over the idea that Yuuri thinks he's cool.

“Wow! Really? Good for you! You deserve it,” Yuuri exclaims without a drop of sarcasm.

“Thank you, you too.” Viktor can't help feeling stupid again. Could he be more dimwitted right now? That was not a, ‘you too’, appropriate sentence.

“Me? Nah, I tried once, but my hands shook so much that I failed the audition,” Yuuri laughs nervously.

“That first time is a killer, you should have gone back and tried again,” Viktor encourages.

Yuuri shakes his head, smiling, “I’m not meant for greatness, I’m content with being perfectly average.” Yuuri looks like he means it, turning his smile happily up to Viktor. “It's really incredible meeting a violist from a quartet though. And from Juilliard, too! Wow....”

“I just play viola, nothing special, most people can't even hear me.”

“I heard a lot of you just now. It was beautiful,” Yuuri says, compliments coming out so easy and free, that Viktor can't possibly hear them all at once. This man is more than Viktor ever imagined, more talented than he'd ever heard. Yuuri is a star crammed in a jar, when he should be in the sky for the world to admire. The compliments should be for him and him alone, not for Viktor, Viktor is nothing compared to Yuuri, a mere space rock compared to the blinding sun.

“It's not the same though, I thought it would be an octave down.” Yuuri observes. It isn't a compliment, but Viktor feels a bit of pride at the words. “It's bigger, too.” Yuuri lifts his violin, measuring it up beside Viktor's viola. Finally, the words click in Viktor's brain that Yuuri is talking about his viola, causing him to feel a strange warmth as the two wooden bodies gently touch. He gains a strange urge to run his fingers down the curve of Yuuri's instrument. “What a pretty color of wood, too, such a vivid red. Like wine. She's beautiful,” Yuuri coos, looking as if he had the same urge to stroke Viktor’s own instrument.

“Would you like to hold her?” Viktor even surprises himself in saying. He never in a million years would let anyone hold his viola, not even Chris has a free pass -- only having touched the instrument once on accident; an accident that he’d had to pay for with dinner and a new set of strings. Yuuri seems equally surprised, because even without the eccentricity of Viktor, most musicians hate strangers touching their instruments anyway.

“I wouldn't want to be a bother,” Yuuri politely declines. Viktor _wants_ Yuuri to touch his instrument though, and he cannot figure out why, just that it feels to Viktor as if it will bring him luck, or good fortune.

“Be my guest.” Viktor offers, his viola balanced on his palms. Yuuri’s eyes flit from the man before him, to the instrument held aloft. He looks conflicted, but excited to have the opportunity. At last, he tucks his own violin in its bed of crushed velvet, looking over the the viola once more.

Yuuri’s strong fingers cradle the wooden neck against his palm, weighing it in his hands. His fingers glide where only Viktor and the elites of the past had ever touched, save for the man who made it. He leaves marks Viktor -- for reasons he cannot himself explain -- never wants to buff out. The expression as Yuuri scrutinizes the instrument is so observant and tense, taking in everything and committing it to memory. Viktor can almost call the display erotic, watching something he treasures so dearly being touched by this beautiful man.

“Try and play her.” Viktor stops, unsure if he said, or thought that. By Yuuri's reaction, and the now sinking pit in Viktor's gut, it definitely implies that it had been out loud. Yuuri swallows, his adam's apple bobbing, as if suddenly he is struck by thirst.

“She's left-handed, it'll sound terrible if I tried,” Yuuri apologizes. Viktor shrugs, honestly not giving a damn what it sounds like -- something he should have really thought twice on, as Viktor _always_ cares what things sound like.

“Humor me.” Viktor smiles in such a way that Yuuri runs out of excuses. With a small breath, Yuuri tucks the viola under his chin, holding it awkwardly in his right hand. Viktor feels almost like he’s caught his lover kissing a stranger, and yet knows it to be an arrangement he agreed on. The moment the bow makes experimental sounds across her Italian catgut strings, Viktor wishes he could join them. The sound isn't anything special, simply a few slow notes shaking and unpracticed, but Viktor swears he has never heard anything this beautiful in his entire life. Yuuri wears the most tender and gentle smile, apologetic and adorable, and Viktor cannot for the life of him look away.

“Sorry, I’m not nearly as good as you.” Yuuri's lips curve up a little, gaze dropping down to reflect on varnish. Viktor finds himself leaning closer, feeling his heart thump, though this time not out of fear. He feels so lost, so completely and utterly confused by the knot in his gut. He’s at a complete loss for any thoughts other than wondering how Yuuri's lips had gotten so pink.

“M-Makka,” Yuuri stutters, eyes fixed on a space below the delicately swirling f, carved into the body ever so close to his cheek. Viktor wishes he could be touching the soft, round cheek instead, watching the reflection of it shimmer against the face of the instrument. “Your viola’s luthier was Carlo Carletti? Isn’t this an Italian anti-”

“Beautiful.…” Viktor gasps.

“What?” Yuuri blinks, looking taken aback.

“What?” Viktor repeats, suddenly realizing he's an entire step too close to Yuuri, destroying any sense of privacy the poor man had. Viktor feels his viola in his hands, wondering when Yuuri had given it back, or even what had happened in the last two minutes. Viktor leaps back and Yuuri lets out a scream, reaching forward for the viola as Viktor trips on his case, flailing his long limbs before catching and righting himself on the wall.

“I'm sorry! I should've warned you about the case. Oh my god, I’d feel terrible if you had broken your viola. I can't believe you'd even let me hold... Makka, is something wrong?” Yuuri panics, reaching a hand forward to help, and only making things worse with the sheer kindness and concern in his expression.

“I... uh, look at the time!” Viktor clears his throat, falling to his knees to toss his expensive antique of an instrument haphazardly into its case. “I just remembered I need to um.…” Viktor can't seem to fit his bow on the peg. “Dog food, at the... um, dog store.” Viktor gives up, closing the case and clicking the latches, getting to his feet and finding Yuuri entirely too close, leaping back. “See you!” Yuuri blinks, lifting a hand to wave.

“Uh, yeah! Tomorrow, around the same time?”

“It's a date!” Viktor beams, suddenly feeling his stomach turn. “I! Um, a playdate,” Viktor laughs nervously, every part of him shooting off ‘ _shut up’_ alarms. “Yeah, so, bye!” Viktor waves, then dashes around the corner and down the street. He’s not sure how long he runs, or really where he’s running to, but suddenly feels it all hit him, just washing over him in a wave of emotions. What had just happened? What had made him suddenly so nervous?

And yet he felt so… _happy_

Viktor pulls out his phone, calling Chris while panting at a red light. Within the first three rings, Chris answers with a yawn.

“Afternoon,” Chris purrs, the shuffle of him sitting up and presumably stretching becoming audible.

“Hi!” Viktor walks on green, with a quick pace to nowhere fast.

“Have you been working out?” Chris asks, intrigued. “You seem out of breath.”

“I’ve been running,” Viktor says in a guilty tone.

“Oh, sweetheart, you didn't,” Chris moans.

“I dunno what happened. We were playing, and then suddenly there was a knot in my chest, and my heart started racing, and my throat closed up. I couldn't think of anything else to do but run.”

“Did you at least talk to him?”

“Yeah… What does it mean when a guy thinks you're cool?” Viktor tries to sound nonchalant.

“Depends, what else did he say?”

“I don't... Remember. I’m a little lost.”

“I gathered as much.”

“No, I’m actually lost. Can you find the closest bus stop off of Fifth Avenue and Fourteenth street?” Viktor asks. Chris debates on telling him to use the phone in his hand, then resigns, deciding to keep Viktor on the line as long as possible. After a quick search -- in which Viktor crosses two streets to the nearest bus and gets on -- Chris asks more at last, prying for gossip as is his favorite past time.

“Are you going back?”

“I have to, I promised,” Viktor resigns, at last properly setting his bow in the case, while a woman sitting across from him watches not-so-subtly from under the brim of her hat.

“There you go! See, that's not so bad,” Chris says. Viktor gives a longing sigh. “Unless, it is?”

“I dunno what's wrong with me, Chris. He's beautiful. Not just his music, all of him,” Viktor says, as if it is the worst thing in the world. “He has these earthy eyes, and then these gorgeously pink lips, god Chris, have you ever just looked at someone's lips?”

“Mhm.” Chris smiles warmly to himself, almost proudly. Viktor's fingers trace across the neck of his viola, where Yuuri had held it only moments ago.

“His hands are so small and gentle, he has the cutest gloves too. Chris, I think his mom made them.” Viktor gives a small sigh.

“Mhmm.”

“He can play so well! Chris, it's like-”

“Electricity?” Chris interrupts.

“Yeah!” Viktor agrees quickly, sitting up so fast the viola nearly falls from his lap.

“So, where's the confusion?”

“Um… well… I swear to god I didn't, and would _never_ , but I think... I nearly kissed him.”

“Viktor, dear. You keep saying good things are happening, as if they are making life hard.”

“I have never wanted to kiss anything before, except Makkachin!” Viktor admits, leaning against the window.

“You wha- never mind. Kissing people is a good thing! Kissing makes everyone happy.”

“But, I can't!” Viktor exclaims, as if there is any true obstacle.

“Why not?” Chris at this point is exasperated. Viktor, though beautiful, is and always will be a brick.

“I just met him? I don't know if he feels the same? And…” Viktor lowers his voice, turning into the phone. ”What if I'm bad at kissing?”

“Ask him to dinner.”

“What? Why?”

“So you can ask him these questions yourself.”

“But I'll sound dumb!”

“Good, everyone loves a dummy.”

“Will you unlock your door for this dummy?”

“Are you at my door?” It sounds as though Chris jumps out of bed, presumably about to dart downstairs.

“No, but I can head over. I'm guessing you want me to divulge all the juicy details anyway,” Viktor chuckles.

“Naturally.”

“Hey, we’re coming up on your stop, so I'll see you soon?”

“Oh, yeah. Don't get lost.”

“I won't!” Viktor huffs, and after a chuckle from Chris, he taps the red hang up icon. Hopping off the bus with a swish in his step, Viktor makes his way over the crunch of red leaves.

“He thinks I'm cool.” Viktor smiles, kicking a small sample of fall into the air. “He likes me for being _me_!” With a skip in his step, Viktor clears a pathway for himself. He sends Autumn stark against the azure sky and a spray of water in his wake, as he jumps through the tree carnage and puddles that mark the way to Chris's penthouse.

“Welcome, _someone_ is happy!”

“Chris, he's wonderful!” Viktor twirls, about to fall into the puffed cushions of a chair, when Chris catches him.

“Watch it! That is white, and you are soaking wet!”

Viktor snaps away from his trance, mind switching gears quickly as his gaze falls on the furniture, “Why did you even buy a chaise lounge?”

“Well,” Chris begins with a flourish of his hand, “You never know when you’ll want a man to feed you grapes.”

Viktor cocks an incredulous eyebrow, then shakes his head, giving it up, “Is this… some sort of suggestion?”

“If you go and get changed, we can go to the lounge upstairs on the balcony, and _I'll_ feed _you_ grapes while you tell me _everything_.”

Viktor slips out of his beanie, handing it to Chris, “Deal.” And with a dancing motion, Viktor flutters into Chris's room in search of clean, dry clothes. “Do you have anything that doesn't look like.... You?” Viktor shouts.

“What will I do with him?” Chris sighs, before resigning to help Viktor abuse his closet privilege. “Not unless you want to buy me something new!”

“Oh, something both of us will love _and_ look gorgeous in?” Viktor chuckles, “Challenge accepted!”

“Don't forget, it also has to make that performer boy swoon.”

“His name is Yuuri.” Viktor sighs against the closet door.

“Then it has to make _Yuuri_ swoon. Or, better yet, fall madly in love.” Chris earns himself a gentle shove to the shoulder.

 

* * *

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Viktor and Chris act like conniving old ladies.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading this! We have everything pre-written so all that needs to be done is editing and illustrating, and we plan on updating weekly.
> 
> If anyone is interested in chatting, or maybe seeing sneak peaks of our progress with this and other projects, we actually post quite often to our [tumblr](https://alexakei.tumblr.com/) now! You can also find us both independently on Twitter, [Kei here](https://twitter.com/Keisuke_on_Ice?lang=en) and [Beans here](https://twitter.com/Humormeister?lang=en)


	2. Daydream Believer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I'm sorry to interrupt_   
>  _It's just I'm constantly on the cusp_   
>  _Of trying to kiss you_   
>  _I don't know if you_   
>  _Feel the same as I do_   
>  _But we could be together_   
>  _If you wanted to..._

 

* * *

 

 

__

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Inhale_

_Exhale_

Viktor’s gaze is plastered across the street, heart racing and hand over his chest. Why has he found himself sitting _here_ again? He taps the index finger of his free hand against the handle of his viola case, debating whether to pick it up and walk up to Yuuri, or not.

 _How had I done it yesterday?_ Viktor wonders.

_Inhale_

_Exhale_

_Be still my beating heart_

Brown meets blue and all at once Viktor’s heart is jump started back into oblivion.

Viktor can see his faux-name on Yuuri's lips as the man stoops to replace his violin in its case, clicking everything together and tossing it against his back. His eyes dart around, Viktor trying to figure out what to do, panic rising from his gut as Yuuri looks both ways and jaywalks the busy street.

“M-Makka!” Yuuri, wonderful and talented Yuuri, is slightly out of breath as he approaches.

“Hello, good morning, er, evening.” Viktor stumbles to retrain his grasp on reality.

“Why are you sitting all the way over here?”

“I, uh, I always do.”

“You alw-- wait!” Yuuri's eyes widen. “I've wondered why you sat over here day after day, and who you were. Now I finally know!” Yuuri sets his case down next to Viktor's, all the while keeping his gaze at eye level and tapping his nose in tandem. Yuuri straightens up, giving Viktor his hand. It distracts him so much that Viktor nearly forgets what this wonderful Yuuri had said.

“Finally?” Viktor wonders if his disguise hadn’t worked after all, that Yuuri could now see through his ruse, though he suddenly doesn’t care, simply lost in the way Yuuri now holds his hand. Then, all at once, he becomes absorbed in the pink tint that Yuuri’s ears have bloomed.

“I well, I assumed it was you who always sat at the coffee shop?”  

“Oh, yeah, that was me,” Viktor admits.

 _He hasn't figured it out_. Viktor sighs in relief.

If Viktor has his way, it will stay like that.

“Say Makka, are you celiac?”

“What?” Viktor snaps back to reality once more, eyes rising from Yuuri's flush cheeks and into his gaze, his beautiful eyes nearly shining crimson in the golden light of the August evening.

“Well, you always order muffins.” Yuuri gestures to the one Viktor has sitting in front of him, scooting out a chair to sit. “However, I noticed that you throw them all away without so much as tasting them most days.”

“Oh, that.” Viktor plucks a raisin off the flaky surface subconsciously, and flicks it onto the ground when he realizes that what Yuuri is saying is true.

“It's just, I have a cousin with celiac disease. If you were, I could give you some of her recipes.”

_He's generous, too._

Viktor debates lying that he is, if not for just the promise of meeting again soon. “I uh, well yes, these are seal-yack free, but the muffins they serve here are really bad.” Okay, he did lie, and feels just as ashamed as he should feel about the situation.

“Oh,” Yuuri chuckles, taken aback, “I see. Um, could I…?” Viktor blinks, following the trajectory of Yuuri's finger back to his muffin.

“Oh, here.” Viktor scoots the pastry in Yuuri's direction. Yuuri samples it, promptly spitting it out into a napkin, making sure the action is politely out of sight.

“Wow, that really is bad.”

“If it’s any consolation, their coffee isn't too terrible,” Viktor offers.

“Sure, if not just to wash the taste of the muffin from my mouth.” Yuuri laughs, taking the mug in his gloved hands and blowing over the rim of the cup to be rid of the steam. Viktor watches Yuuri’s lips as they touch the same ceramic that Viktor’s had only moments ago.  Viktor feels a sudden urge to return his lips to the rim of the mug, if just to graze where Yuuri had once kissed.

_Never have I wanted to drink shitty coffee more in my life._

“Oh? Sorry, I was hogging it, wasn’t I?” Yuuri apologizes, handing it back across the table.

 _Did I really say that out loud?_ Viktor is sure this time to keep the thought in his head.

Viktor kicks himself from the inside. “Sorry, that was rude of me. Thank you, Yuuri.”

“Sure thing.” Yuuri nods.

Viktor swallows, breath catching in his throat as he looks down at the mug. He takes the handle in his right hand and swings it around, lifting and positioning it at the exact angle Yuuri had been drinking from.

Viktor drinks softly from the mug of mediocre coffee, as if sipping from the holy grail filled with the ambrosia of the gods, pure gold and joy spilling past his lips and down his throat as he ingests the same coffee as Yuuri had. Only a small part of him realizes how very childish and pathetic he is to need to be so underhanded for a kiss.

_I want to kiss him._

“Oh? I thought you were left handed?” Yuuri asks. Viktor swallows the warm liquid wrong, coughing violently.

“I-- I’m ambidextrous,” Viktor chokes out finally.

“You..Okay there, Makka?”

“Oh, yes, I think…” Viktor is not ‘okay’, he is pathetic. “You just said it so suddenly it caught me off guard.”

“Sorry.” Yuuri looks down, almost distraught.

“No need to apologize.” Viktor breathes heavily out his nose, some of the liquid still stinging in the passage. “I should be the one apologizing.”

“No, no.” Yuuri waves his hands, and after a long silence. “I’ve never been here before, do they not have paper to-go cups?”

“No, they do, I just prefer to use a mug, it’s better.” Viktor stops himself, he needs to quit making off handed remarks like this, it must make him sound so posh. No wonder he typically comes off to others as being overwhelmingly high maintenance.

“Oh? So you’re an environmentalist?” Yuuri asks, smiling warmly.

“Huh?” _Shut up Viktor, he’s giving you an out!_ “Oh, er, yeah, sort of.” _Could you_ sound _more sure of yourself?_

“That’s really sweet!” Yuuri says.

_He thinks I’m sweet…_

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Yuuri shuffles, shrugging a duffel bag from his shoulders, one Viktor could’ve sworn he’s never seen in Yuuri’s possession, not that he really remembers anything except Yuuri himself.

“Ah, oh! Wait.” Viktor panics as Yuuri starts shelling out wads of cash. “You know what, I am _STARVING,_ do you know anywhere nearby? I’m still new to the neighborhood, you know, looking for food is like the most important thing right?” Viktor nearly has to slap his hand over his mouth to get himself to shut up.

Yuuri furrows his brows, thinking. “I know of a gluten-free bakery up the street.”

“Of course! Perfect! Wonderful!” Viktor leaps to his _feet, paws, toes!_ Viktor just can’t say a thing, can he? He has to add something extra and stupid to it! Viktor turns away, eliminating all opportunity for Yuuri to offer him the money, so that Yuuri has no other choice than to stuff the bills back into his bag.

“Right now?” Yuuri tentatively asks.

“Uh? Sure.” Viktor turns, dumping the rest of his coffee onto a nearby bush and throwing the muffin out. He swoops his viola onto his back, and he attempts to throw his free arm around Yuuri’s shoulder, only to immediately stretch instead, last minute, to try and play it off as if it’s not as weird as it definitely seems. Yuuri, luckily, gives laugh and wraps his bag around his shoulders, standing to hoist his violin on top of that.

“I went there with my friend last week, they have way better muffins, though a bit crumbly,” Yuuri beams like the ray of sunshine he is.

“Excellent, I can’t wait.” Viktor wrings his hands as if he’s unsure of what to do with them.

“Plus, they don't just have bread! They also have soups which are really good. Oh! They also have a really killer salted caramel brownie that practically melts in your mouth. A little on the pricy side because it has no nuts, or dairy either, but all around really _really_ good. You should try it sometime,” Yuuri enthuses, while Viktor fantasizes about buying Yuuri a thousand brownies, daydreaming about Yuuri’s current smile growing ten fold from the gift. Viktor wants to see this man’s happy smile for the rest of time.

The bakery is quaint, and the decor is inviting. A little chalkboard out front advertises a lunch menu with a smiling cupcake drawn on it, waving them in. Yuuri points out a few more things on the menu, all of which Viktor smiles and nods to hearing the beautiful sounds of Yuuri's voice, but registering nothing. Viktor is quite sure Yuuri could read him the dictionary and he’d be just as enthralled. The dessert case is more that Viktor can handle, Yuuri practically drooling as he points to the adorable pastries, naming the ones he's tried with so much joy and gusto, and listing the ones he plans to try in future with wistful daydreams and anticipation. Viktor actually pinches himself to be sure he's here right now, how could he have possibly gone from daydreaming of being able to simply _talk_ to Yuuri, to this moment?

Viktor orders a something-something panini, while Yuuri gets a small cup of their green pea cheddar soup, and a sample double chocolate chip cookie to munch on as he admires the decorated cakes in the freezer. With food in hand, Yuuri insists on showing Viktor the neighborhood park.

Normally, Viktor is pretty much indoors, only going out to walk Makkachin around the city. So he isn't  a connoisseur of parks, but this one seems distinctly average at first glance; a walking path, playground, and benches, nothing mindblowing. _Oh_ , but the way Yuuri describes their _surroundings_ , giving stories and memories for every tree and bench, sometimes just smiling at the falling leaves and humming, “Not much, but I love it.” Viktor will never find a better park as long as he shall live.

They settle down on a bench, somewhere in high foot traffic, watching people pass by as they eat.

“This _is_ a great park.” Viktor agrees, biting into his gluten free -- and a thousand times better than the muffins indeed -- sandwich. “My dog would like it. She really likes kids.” Viktor smiles, looking toward the playground.

“Aw, how sweet. Bring her next time, she’ll have a blast,” Yuuri says, drinking from the cardboard soup cup. “My dog likes it a lot here.”

“You have a dog!” Viktor exclaims. Yuuri is a dog person! Viktor could marry him here and now.

“Yes, a toy poodle. Not always up for a proper walk, being so little, but she loves to play in the grass.” Yuuri smiles thinking about it, and then turns the godlike grin to Viktor. “It might be embarrassing, since you’ve probably met him, but I actually named her after Viktor Nikiforov.”

“O-oh? And why's that?” Viktor stammers. Trying to look natural, and likely failing. Yuuri hides behind his soup cup, laughing a little.

“Okay, it _is_ embarrassing,” Yuuri laughs awkwardly. “Viktor adopted a poodle, and so I did too and then named her Viktor. It took a week to realize she was female, but she already responded to it, so now I call her Vicchan.”

“How cute.” The idea that Yuuri had a sweet little poodle named after Viktor is the biggest compliment Viktor has ever been given. “It was more that I was asking how you feel about Viktor, your dog is very sweet though.” Yuuri turns a pink color, sipping his soup thoughtfully.

“Well, he is one of the most brilliant musicians of our time… And kinda my hero.” Yuuri admits. Viktor chokes on his sandwich.

“Hero!” Viktor squeaks. “Me? UH!-- _My!_ Uh, my gosh, that's neat!” Viktor attempts to save the blunder with a few extra coughs.

“Do you want some water or something? I have some.” Yuuri offers, pulling his bag off his back and fishing the bottle from the mesh netting on the side. Viktor has died after all, and the light at the end of the tunnel is Yuuri's smiling face offering him a water bottle. Viktor has never been more happy in his life. Yuuri offers the plastic water bottle and Viktor takes it, wondering how much of an idiot he must be to relish so much in drinking this man's backwash and spit.

“So, if you met him, Nikiforov I mean. If he walked out from behind say, that tree for instance, what would you do?” Viktor must have shrugged about five times asking this, gesturing in a general direction and trying too hard to be nonchalant.

“Get tongue tied and probably run or hide from embarrassment.” Yuuri laughs to himself. Viktor thinks on this, and decides to never make Yuuri want to be or do any of these things, as he’d much rather enjoy their time together without having to chase after Yuuri.

“He’s not scary you know. Just a normal guy.” Viktor says, picking at the wilted lettuce of his lunch.

“Well of course he is, but I don't know, I'm just not ready to face my hero yet. If that makes sense.” Yuuri says almost apologetically. Viktor nods, understanding none of it but knowing it definitely meant never telling Yuuri who he really is. That's okay though, Viktor really likes the name Makka, he named his dog Makka after all, he could be Makka. A small part of his brain asks him if he really is just going to lie forever, then is promptly sat out by the majority vote to not think about it.

“So, I’m curious. If you can take your dog for walks then do you live nearby?” Viktor beams, leaning back and eating his sandwich as if nothing interesting had happened.

“I live a few blocks from here, Vicchan gets too sleepy by the time we get to the park most days, so I typically tuck her into my bag.” Yuuri is practically giggling at the idea, and god Viktor cannot stand it. Who cleared an angel to come to earth?  “What about you? Where do you stay?” Viktor _for once_ catches himself before blurting out his address, realizing he lives on the upper east side with the fancy rich people, actually quite aways from here. Viktor panics to search for a plan B.

“Actually, I'm staying with a friend while I find an apartment.” There, now Viktor doesn't have to think up an address.

“Oh yeah? Where does your friend live, if you don't mind me asking.” _Shit_ , this wasn't part of the plan.

“Um…” Viktor pinches his temples between index finger and thumb, pressing himself to think of _any_ other friend but Chris, Georgi, or Mila, who _all_ live in fancy ass houses in the upper east. Viktor realizes now that he only has three friends, and an even richer conductor.

“Sorry, I'm prying aren't I?” Yuuri's face looks so melancholic Viktor just blurts out Chris's address anyway. “Wow, you have a rich friend!”

“Y-yeah we met in college. Juilliard kids are generally rich.” Viktor waves away the notion.

“Are you rich?”

Viktor may as well put his foot in his mouth now.

“Me? Haha, nah, what gives you that idea?”

“You own a nineteen forties Carlo Carletti Italian antique viola valued at roughly seven thousand dollars, which you play professionally in a quartet, and were trained at Juilliard?” Yuuri shrugs. “Seems like pretty good proof to me.”

“Oh that? It's been in the family.” Viktor can't decide which surprises him more, the fact that Yuuri, bless him, remembers everything about his viola after only seeing it once, or the fact that Viktor is STILL stringing him along endless web of lies he'd now have to keep up with.

“Wow, I wish,” Yuuri chuckles, “I had to save up for a year to afford Knilling back in highschool, and still haven’t upgraded.”

“Oh.” Viktor suddenly feels very guilty, wanting nothing more than to buy this kid a Guarnerius or even a Stradivarius if not for how impossible they are to find.

“Wait, while we are talking about money.” Yuuri unzips his bag again, and Viktor’s heart begins trying to break free of his chest.

“You know, I have no way to get that home! And I wouldn’t want to carry so much in my hand or pocket.”

Yuuri knits his brows together in worry. “Makka, you should've just said so. I can walk back with you.”

_Why is he like this?_

_Wait, speaking of Stradivarius!!!_

“Um, actually, my friend whom I'm staying with owns a Stradivarius!” Viktor nods fervently.

“R-REA,” Yuuri's eyes grow stars in them, but he quickly snuffs them out and takes a deep, calming breath, then clears his throat. “He does? That's neat…”

“Do you… want to see it?”

“YES,” Yuuri squeaks enthusiastically, clearing his throat again. “I mean. What violinist passes up a chance to see a Strad?”

“You can be excited,” Viktor reminds him, and Yuuri lets out a puff of air. Viktor relates to holding his breath when excited.

“I've _always_ wanted to see a Stradivarius up close,” Yuuri sighs in an elated key.

“Where's the nearest bus stop?”

“Oh, right now?” Yuuri perks up, eyes alight and mouth twitching in anticipation, holding back an even broader smile.

“Sure, why not?” The longer Viktor can keep him distracted from the money, the better.

“Okay, follow me I guess.”

Upon doing so, Viktor learns something peculiar; Yuuri is a born and bred product of New York -- regardless of his true origin, which looks more Eastern, honestly -- guiding Viktor around the people in a rush, jaywalking across every street, and just generally having no sense of impending danger. He had been walking so fast, in fact, that when he suddenly stops in front of the sign indicating a bus, Viktor runs into him.

“Makka?” Yuuri giggles, obvious excitement riding his tone.

“Sorry,” Viktor pants, “Wow, you walk fast.” Yuuri gives him a once over.

“You're like. Nearly six feet tall Makka, how are _you_ out of breath?”

“I don't… go outside.” Viktor admits shamefully, “I walk my dog, and that’s about it.”

“Really? You look so trim.” Yuuri smirks, “I’m like twice as wide and in better shape.” Viktor can’t even be offended, simply beaming down at Yuuri with a warm grin.

“You got me there. I spend too much time in the orchestra pit and not enough outside.” Viktor hums, thinking about how nice it would be to hug Yuuri or hold his hand while they waited for their bus.

“I dunno which I’d like better, going outside or playing with an orchestra. I’ve always wanted to play in a professional setting, though I’m not sure I’m really suited,” Yuuri ponders.

“I think you are. You play beautifully, Yuuri. I think you could make it if you tried again.” Viktor means it with all of his being. “Not many can keep up with my playing, not even Viktor Nikiforov could.” Yuuri blushes at the compliment, looking up the street to try and hide it but Viktor still sees it in his ears. Viktor wants nothing more than to make Yuuri be the very best he can be, to have him reach for the stars and land on pluto. He wants Yuuri to be the kind of person who would welcome his hero without fear.

“Th-thank you, Makka…” Yuuri whispers into his gloves, turning to look up into Viktor’s blue eyes. If there was more to that thought, Yuuri forgot it. Viktor forgot the entire english language, remembering only the color of deep amber, and dusty rose. His finger grazes across peach, tucking black behind a scarlet ear. He remembers the word for heart, hears it thumping loudly in his chest, his breath held behind his tongue as he feels a strange and familiar need. Yuuri’s lashes flutter down as he lets out a shaky breath, his chin tilting up.

A familiar sound of tires screeching to a halt on the street pulls Viktor to the present, and he takes a large step back. Swallowing hard, he moves to run his fingers through his hair and finding nothing but the hat on his head. Yuuri blinks twice, his eyes looking over Viktor with an expression Viktor cannot name. Clearing his throat, Viktor waves to the bus as people begin to spill out.

“Window seat or aisle?” Viktor asks, trying to shut his heart up.

“Um... Window,” Yuuri answers a little dazed, sounding confused. They board the bus without a word, and find seats somewhere in the middle. They make small talk, but generally remain quiet. Viktor gives his seat to a pregnant mother, and Yuuri spends the rest of the ride entertaining her toddler, Viktor watching quietly and loving the view, but wondering what is wrong with him. He’d almost kissed Yuuri, and ruined everything. He will have to be more careful.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Viktor can hear Yuuri taking deep breaths, and sets a hand on his shoulder, “You doing alright?”

“I’ve never seen an apartment so large and extravagant,” Yuuri admits, “Also I am minutes away from seeing a Stradivarius…” He reminds Viktor for the fifth time that hour -- not that Viktor’s keeping track.

“That’s okay.” Viktor reassures, lifting a fist to knock, but getting pulled back by Yuuri’s lithe fingers.

“Wait, I’m not ready!”

“Yuuri…”

“Give me one more minute.” Yuuri takes a few more calming breaths, then releases Viktor’s arm.

“You good...or?” Yuuri nods. “Alright, I’m knocking,” Viktor says as he raps against the wooden frame. A moment later, Chris's head peaks around the door.

“Vi--!” He stops, turning his gaze towards Yuuri. “Who do you have here?”

“M-Makka! You’re!” Yuuri exclaims, before gathering himself and pulling Viktor from the door, tugging him down to his level. “You're staying with Christophe Giacometti?” Yuuri whispers into Viktor's ear. Viktor looks to Chris for help, simply earning an unsympathetic smirk. Viktor turns an apologetic smile to Yuuri.

“Yes, we went to college together...” Viktor explains lamely, wishing to have a better excuse.

“Well yeah, but... “ Yuuri chances a glance to the Swede, who is leaning in the doorframe with a very pleased-with-himself grin. He waves his fingers at Yuuri. Yuuri hides a little behind Viktor's arm. “I don't belong here, I should go home.” Yuuri decides finally, looking ready to flee. Viktor takes Yuuri’s shoulders giving him a small smile.

“Chris only bites on the third date, you'll be fine.” This doesn't comfort Yuuri, so Viktor adds, “think of the Stradivarius.” Yuuri purses his lips, then sighs reluctantly. Viktor laughs, turning Yuuri to face Chris, who stands upright, smiling as hospitably as possible.

“Chris, this is Yuuri,” Viktor says with a smile too bright for Chris to argue with.

“I’m sorry to intrude upon your home, time, and space.” Yuuri says, bowing so deeply, his violin case flies higher up on his back and thumps gently on his head.

“Oh no, hello, welcome Yuuri.” Chris smiles, amused by the gesture, and certainly not upset by its formality. “I’ve heard nice things about you my dear.” Yuuri rights himself, turning a horrified expression to Viktor, almost asking, _You told THE Chris Giacometti about ME?!_ All Viktor can do is shrug. “So what brings you two here, _Makka_?” Chris adds emphasis on Viktor’s pseudo name, earning himself a jab in the ribcage, disguised as a friendly bump.

“We were thinking you might show Yuuri your Stradivarius?” Viktor’s eyebrows raise in a pleading, _Please Chris, I will buy you ice cream._

“Oh?” Chris returns the plea with an expression that translates roughly to, _Viktor you son of a bitch, you owe me fucking big time boi! And I mean you are taking me to a nice ass dinner, whatever is currently playing on broadway, and that kitten convention you absolutely hate going to because it’s just hours of me just cooing at cats while you smack your head on a wall. Also, yes, and it better be a big ass ice cream._ That, or, _save me from the man who is flirting with me, and has been for the last ten minutes, just before you got here. Please help, he's been talking about penguins for four minutes straight and smells an awful lot like fish._

Viktor assumes it is the first one though, and mouths a silent, _please_.

Chris turns a smile to Yuuri, stepping aside in the doorway, “Well then, shall we?”

Yuuri needs a little shove, but soon they gather into the apartment. Viktor removes his viola, leaning her against the kitchen table. He watches Yuuri take in Chris's artistic housing, turning from one room to the other and just shaking his head at it all.

“You have a gorgeous home, Mr. Giacometti,” Yuuri gawks, his hand gripping each other tightly as he must be trying to keep from shaking, or perhaps to stop from breaking something he cannot afford to replace. Viktor smiles at his shyness, feeling a silly urge to squish Yuuri’s little tummy.

“I’m flattered, but please, it's just Chris. Also thank you, I just had it redone for autumn.” Chris waves, the very essence of demure geniality. Chris stops in the living room, waving his hand to the assortment of chairs. “It's in the vault upstairs. So, Yuuri dear, make yourself comfortable. If you need anything to drink, perhaps _Makka_ can help you.”

“Thank you, I’m very honored. I love your work, I stayed up till four A.M. to hear you play in Italy this summer, you have such nimble fingers,” Yuuri blurts, turning a bright red. “Sorry, ignore me.” Yuuri covers his face, hiding from ridicule. He shouldn't have worried, though, Viktor is too enamored with the way Yuuri spoke of his passions to judge, and Chris is far to flattered to find fault.

“I’m sorry to have made you stay up so late, though you don't seem to need beautyrest,” Chris purrs, giving Viktor a look that says, _I like him._

“O-oh no it's okay, It was worth it. It's just so weird to see you in person.” Yuuri lets out a laugh that turns into more of a squeak.

“Yuuri, you flatter me too much. You don't need to, in order to see the Stradivarius.” Chris laughs, and Yuuri blushed harder, Chris lets out another laugh, “It's working though, I’ll be right back. Keep an eye on _Makka_ for me, he's a troublemaker.” Chris winks, getting a stuttering agreement from Yuuri, then leaving. The moment he’s gone Yuuri finds a seat, waving his hands and breathing slowly.

“Yuuri? Are you okay?” Viktor asks, leaping to Yuuri's side. Yuuri swallows dryly, nodding.

“I wasn't ready, oh my god Makka, how can you be so relaxed!” Yuuri breathes slowly, trying to calm himself. “I should go, I _really_ don't belong here.” Yuuri shifts to stand, and Viktor pushes his shoulders gently to get him to sit.

“You’ve got a violin on your back, you belong here,” Viktor insists. “Would you like anything? Water, juice, a paper bag?” Yuuri shakes his head, taking a smooth breath, then letting it out shakely.

“I’m okay. I think.” Yuuri nods. Then he leaps back, giving a yelp. Viktor blinks, unsure of what has happened, until a soft and confused little mew settles on the chair beside Yuuri. “Oh my god, it's just a cat.” Yuuri sighs. Viktor can’t help himself but laugh, the cat must have slunk up onto the couch to sit in Yuuri's lap, but then spooked him.

“This is Chris's cat, Sweetpea. She's very snugly, especially when you're wearing black pants and need to be somewhere nice,” Viktor says, stroking behind her fluffy ears. Yuuri laughs a little at himself, reaching to pet her as well. Yuuri’s fingers graze Viktor's palm, causing him to recoil quickly, letting Yuuri have sole petting privileges.

“Hello Sweetpea, you scared the living daylights out of me,” Yuuri coos, stroking the long white fur. Sweetpea, as all cats are, is an opportunist, taking in the praise and exposed lap and settling herself into both with a swish of her poofy tail. Yuuri seems to calm down a bit, smiling at the menace to all dark fabrics, and breathing easy.

“Does she get along with your dog?” Yuuri asks, looking up to Viktor, who is beaming down at him.

“Hm? They seem to tolerate each other on bad days, but for the most part they are quite friendly.” Viktor answers, sitting down on a kitchen stool opposite Yuuri and enjoying the smile on his face.

“That's really sweet, they don't mind living together at all?” Yuuri rolls a handful of fur into a ball in his palm. Viktor blinks, then suddenly remembers that Yuuri thinks that Chris and he live together for the time being.

“Ah, yeah no, they've made a pact I think. At the very least not to destroy the house while we’re away.” Viktor forces a laugh, realizing that he can't bring Makkachin over, because Yuuri knows Viktor Nikiforov has a poodle. Yet, then Yuuri will begin to suspect, if there is no dog in the penthouse. Yuuri laughs at the joke, petting Sweetpea with a smile.

“Where is she?” Yuuri asks exactly what Viktor hoped he’d have forgotten.

“Groomer!” Viktor says with a little too much enthusiasm. “She's had some wicked matting since shedding her summer coat, so.” Viktor shrugs, hoping that would be good enough. Thankfully, Yuuri nods knowingly.

“Vicchan gets those, I normally have to clip them myself though, since groomers are so expensive. What breed is she?” Yuuri is getting better at saying distracting things, and then immediately asking something that requires a lie.

“Maaak-” _Crap, I can't say Makkachin!_ I’m _Makka! Think fast, you fool,_ “Makala! She is a samoyed,” Viktor quickly saves, gripping his knee a little too tightly and praying Yuuri doesn't ask for pictures.

“Oh, the big white ones?”

“Yeah, the big white ones.” Viktor nods, praying this is enough. Yuuri laughs, lifting his hand, which is now drenched in white fur.

“Maybe that's why they get along so well,” Yuuri jokes, and Viktor laughs a little too hard, hoping the topic will be dropped soon. Luckily, Chris reappears, carrying a violin older than the three of them put together.

“I see you've met the duchess.” Chris smiles winningly. Sweetpea, hearing Chris's voice, sashays around on Yuuri's lap -- her tail smacking the glasses off Yuuri’s face -- in order to face Chris, mewing softly. Yuuri sits on his hands, eyes locked on the ancient violin.

“She's very friendly.” Yuuri nods, looking over the instrument where his focus actually lies. Chris laughs at how eager Yuuri is, stepping closer to provide a better look.

“Built in sixteen seventy-eight, and a gift for my great ancestors. It was stolen a few times, pawned twice, and even given away, but in seventeen thirty-seven, my great great etcetera, grandmother, found it in a gentlemen's club. She stole it back, wrapped it in linen, shut it in a steel lockbox, and with all the money she had to her name, she took it with her to what is now Switzerland. She buried it under the back shed where her, nor her family's greed could pawn it. Then, she spent the next thirteen years playing her own violin wherever they would hire her, staying just out of poverty enough to keep her home. In seventeen fifty, she took it out and played it, for the first time since it's making, for her children. Those children grew, and played it for their children, and so on and so on until today, where my mother played it for me, and will one day play it for my children.” Chris smiles proudly at the wonder on Yuuri's face. Viktor just rolls his eyes, having heard the story more times than he can count. “The neck isn't the original, I'm afraid, but if you look inside you can see the maker is, in fact, Stradivari.” Chris tilts the body forward, letting Yuuri peek inside. Yuuri seems to have forgotten to breathe.

“She's beautiful… I didn't know there was a Stradivarius in your family, you've never played it publicly.” Yuuri praises.

“That's because, he doesn't want to publicly announce he has one, for fear anyone looks into the claims of a woman stealing a Stradivarius from a gentleman's club.” Viktor chuckles.

“Well, at least I didn't pick my priceless instrument up at an auction house in Houston, instead of paying rent or tuition my senior year…” Chris retorts with a smirk. Just as Viktor prepares to remark on that one time that Chris got wasted and nearly smashed, his ‘family heirloom’ in a dramatic fall, Yuuri pipes up.

“But, Makka's viola _was_ in his family,” Yuuri says politely. Viktor forgot he’d lied about that too, his heart sinking into his gut, his throat seeming to close up entirely as he forces a smile.

“Yeah, Chris, you should know better,” Viktor nearly pleads. Chris does a slow turn, looking to Yuuri, then panning back to Viktor with a wicked grin.

“My mistake,” Chris purrs like a cat to a mouse. “I’m mixing you up with Viktor again.” Chris chuckles warmly, turning an apologetic smile to Yuuri. “The two are so similar after all. Same height, same age, same instrument, they are practically twins.” Viktor prays to any deity that may hear, that Yuuri doesn’t look his way.

Yuuri looks Viktor over.

_There is no god._

“I suppose so, they both have blue eyes too,” Yuuri supplies, building Viktor’s coffin. “That must have been confusing in rehearsals and stuff.” Yuuri smiles, complacently stroking Sweetpea, who sits pleasantly enjoying her lap.

“Oh yeah, at one point they were roommates too, on occasion they’d switch clothes just to confuse the teacher.” Chris walks to Viktor, placing his hand on his shoulder. “It got to a point where we would simply refer to them as, ‘Viktor 1’ and ‘Viktor 2’” Chris laughs, more of a high giggle as he massages his hand across Viktors shoulder. The room goes quiet as Yuuri looks over Viktor, assessing him quietly, then shaking his head.

“It’s so weird being here, and knowing you are _the_ Christophe Giacometti, and you lived with _the_ Viktor Nikiforov. It feels like a dream.” Yuuri laughs, covering his smile. “Sorry to be awkward, I’m extremely nervous.” Viktor lets out a breath of air that he wasn’t aware he was holding.

“Nonsense Yuuri, you needn’t be nervous,” Viktor encourages. “We’re just people.” Viktor becomes aware of Chris’ hand sliding to the back of his neck, fingers reaching for Viktors beanie.

“Yes, Viktor too, he’s very human, and full of all sorts of flaws,” Chris notes, his hand darting up. Viktor ducks forward and out of his chair, planting his hand on his head to firmly secure the hat there.

“We all do, _right_ Chris?” Viktor snaps. Chris looks innocently over the amber glaze of his family heirloom, shrugging elegantly.

“True, we are no better or worse than anyone. We simply have a brighter spotlight on us,” Chris muses, stroking the two-hundred fifty year old violin with his finger. Yuuri nods slowly, patting Sweetpea into a soft purr. “I hear good things about your playing though, Yuuri.” Yuuri looks like he’d very much like to hide.

“M-me? No, I’m just a street musician, I’m nothing special,” Yuuri  dismisses. Chris gives a soft smile, looking over Yuuri, then spotting the way that Viktor watches Yuuri with an expression happier than Chris has ever seen him. Chris gives a laugh, placing his violin on the counter behind him. Then, with a whirling spin, he turns to face Yuuri.

“I have heard otherwise. I have heard only the highest of praise for you, and coming from my friend here, _Makka_ , that is nothing to take for granted. So, my dear Yuuri, I will make you a proposal. Play something amazing for me, and I will let you hold my Stradivarius.” Chris announces, and even Viktor’s jaw drops for that statement. Getting Chris to show off the family heirloom in and of itself is near impossible. But being able to touch it?

“Oh no, I can’t, I’ll break it!” Yuuri squeaks. Chris waves his hand, waltzing around and into the kitchen, pulling a glass out of a cupboard.

“You shouldn’t be so modest. You’re itching to hold her, so this is my offer: play something to wow me.” Chris pours himself water, turning to lean on the counter, watching Yuuri with an amused smile. Yuuri turns to Viktor, looking helpless, and Viktor smiles encouragingly.

“There is no harm in trying, right?” Viktor asks. Yuuri swallows, looking down at Sweetpea, who is softly kneading into his thigh. Then he looks up at the violin lying tantalizingly close to him, exposed and inviting. His mouth opens, and then Yuuri sighs.

“Any requests?” Yuuri relents, lifting Sweetpea off his lap to stand.

“Show me whatever you’d like.” Chris muses. Yuuri shrugs off his violin and bag, opening the case on the couch, much to Sweetpea’s interest, sniffing the case from top to bottom, and looking curiously over the unfamiliar instrument, as Yuuri tightens his bow, looking nervous.

Viktor touches Yuuri’s hand. “You don’t have to…” Viktor begins, then sees Yuuri’s expression, and withdraws.

“I want to.” Yuuri still sounds nervous, but his eyes burn with the challenge. Viktor steps back, nodding softly. Yuuri strips his coat off , tugging away his scarf, hat, and gloves, and leaves them in a pile on the couch behind him. “Sorry Miss,” Yuuri apologises to the cat, as he lifts his violin from it’s case and away from her scrutiny. Viktor and Chris exchange looks as Yuuri tunes of his violin.

[Yuuri then tucks the violin under his chin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T7k2pmKUXxI), setting his fingers into place and gently tapping his bow on his thigh.

Then silence.

Yuuri stands still for a moment, as if listening to the accompaniment, his eyes closed. And then, his bow lifts suddenly, hoving for a few moments before tenderly touching down to the strings like the gentle kiss of a lover, fluttering on the sound so softly it is as if he conjured a butterfly from his strings.

_Her wings are thin as light, and fragile as air. With another flutter, she takes flight, shimmering over a field of yellow flowers. Her wings glimmer blue when the moon shone upon them, her flight taking her on her lazy way across the sky. With a little wave, Yuuri shows her around trees, gliding to and fro, across rivers and lakes, leaving a sparkling trail behind her as she goes. She’s happy, content, for she knows nothing more than her forest home. She flits, dancing with the fireflies, and singing with the crickets. She is happy._

_One night, she decides to wander from her master, flying over a lake to look at her gossamer wings. She drifts over the water, dipping up and down, watching her little trail follow behind. She loses track of time, smiling warmly down at her own light, so much that she hardly notices that she is not the only light upon the water. Besider her is a small ball, white and beautiful. Now that she’s seen it, she cannot look away. Fluttering around and around, asking the stranger to dance. But it appears the light is too shy -- so with a laugh, she invites the handsome light to sing with her. The butterfly’s voice is quiet, but her guest is quieter still. Around and around the butterfly flits, settling to the side of the pond on a blade of grass, watching the stranger; so stoic and beautiful, so distant and lonely. Perhaps the stranger hates her, perhaps she is not beautiful enough for them?_

_The butterfly sobs softly, until at last Yuuri finds her, leaning his hand down for her to crawl pathetically into. She tells him softly of her friend, and cries that the stranger couldn’t find joy as she had. Yuuri smiles at his sad ward, balancing her on his violin, then gently tucking it once more under his chin. His notes come smooth and even, flying her higher than she has ever flown on her own, higher than the trees, higher than sky! Guiding her up and up, until at last she sees her friend._

_The tiny light from the pond, no longer small at all, but now a millions times her size. The moon smiles at the young butterfly, singing her a soft song. Her words are strange to the little bug, but the message is clear. A thank you for the visit, a thank you for the dance, and a thank you for sharing her tiny, beautiful voice. The butterfly blushes at the song, unsure of what to say, so she beams at her new friend, fluttering up with all her might to gently kiss the moon._

_They sing together, the moon and the butterfly, exchanging songs from the earth and the sky, the butterfly dancing to the strange music with a smile on her little face. Then, as they both know she must, the butterfly flutters down again once more, slowly gliding and floating her way back to her home on earth, where she sees trees, and grass, and most of all her master; Yuuri. At last, she lands on Yuuri’s bow, sleepily holding on until he gently places her back inside the violin, where she sleeps, dreaming of her friend, the moon._

The room becomes silent, almost more than it had ever been before. For now, it knew exactly what it sounded like to be full of music. Viktor has to shake himself to remember where he is, blinking several times as if he has just woken from a dream. He turns to see Chris in much the same state, looking as if he’s just stepped through a door and found another world on the other side.

Yuuri looks nervously between them for feedback, only to have neither of them dare break the silence. Viktor personally thinks there were no words to describe how he feels, no world he can find that would understand what sad attempts he could make of it. So instead, he’d let Chris find them, and stay happily in stunned silence, even though he himself never had a doubt that Yuuri could play as he had just then.

“Sorry, I rushed the ending a little, and I missed at least fifty notes,” Yuuri pipes, up at last caving in to the silence. He turns, placing his violin in its case, only to find a cat sleeping there. Chris seems to stir at last, clipping his jaw closed and softly shaking his head.

“What did you say you do for a living?” Chris asks. Yuuri looks up from his attempts to maneuver the cat without actually disturbing her.

“I am a street performer. I play on street corners and sometimes at bars. During the winter I normally tutor or wait tables at restaurants near my house.” Yuuri adjusts his glasses awkwardly, looking everywhere but at Chris. Probably because Chris is giving him a burning expression, looking at Yuuri as if he’s never met him until just this very moment.

Chris nods, lifting his glass to his lips, sipping water thoughtfully before placing it down with a quiet click. Then, without a word, he lifts the Stradivarius by its neck.He walks around the table, through the kitchen, and stops in front of Yuuri, offering the instrument to him. Yuuri swallows hard, reaching up to take the wooden body, only to recoil, folding his hands together and looking nervous.

“I can’t,” Yuuri begins, but is cut of by the sharp click of Chris's tongue.

“Yuuri, I am very picky about who may handle this violin. It took four years of college before I even told that one over there that I had this, and he _still_ hasn’t held her.” Chris shakes his head slowly. “But never in all my life have I ever seen a man play Chopin as you have just now. Never have I seen a man hold their violin as you do yours, cradling her as you would a child. Never have I heard a sound so mournful, as though you’re teaching the instrument itself how to sing. Before, when I made the offer, it was just to have the chance to hear what all the fuss was about. And now, I cannot think of another person on this earth more suited to hold,and  maybe someday play, my family’s greatest treasure.” Yuuri looks taken aback, staring from Chris to the antique in his hands. Chris lets out a quiet laugh, offering the wooden body. “Please Yuuri, accept my offer.”

When Yuuri takes the instrument in his hands, he handles it like glass. Each movement is measured and slow, to ensure he doesn’t drop the ancient body. As his fingers carefully wander over the amber wood, he holds his breath as if he thinks breathing would ruin the moment, or worse - destroy the work of a master. His eyes take in every detail, memorizing the curves and cuts, the flairs and decorations all gently set into the wood. Then, at last, he holds it under the light to read the label inside. Yuuri smiles, returning the violin to her owner, and bowing.

“Thank you, I am honored,” Yuuri says reverently.

Chris chuckles softly, taking the violin. “No, thank you. I think you have single handedly inspired me more in one evening than I can ever recall. In fact, if you don’t mind, when I get back I’d like to play a duet with you,” Chris enthuses. Yuuri’s eyes widen, the idea of playing with Christophe Giacometti clearly more than he has ever dreamed.

“I-I-I don’t mind!” Yuuri whispers behind his hands. Chris gives Yuuri’s shoulder a thump, smiling broadly.

“Excellent.” Chris turns to Viktor, who had been previously content watching Yuuri shine like the star he is, but is now sitting up a little at the attention. Chris flicks his eyes to the side, tilting his head in the same direction. Viktor stands.

“I need to go to the bathroom.” Viktor excuses himself, walking into the other room where Chris meets with him, wearing a serious expression.

“Viktor, he is amazing. What on earth are you doing?” Chris scolds.

“I know he is… What do you mean?” Viktor straightens his back as Chris takes a step closer.

“That boy is a genius! Take him to practice tomorrow, have him play for Yakov! He deserves better than this, he deserves...” Chris lifts his hands at a loss for words.

“I know! I’m trying, he’s very shy.”

“He doesn’t need to be, Viktor, I would say he out plays you to some degree, even when you were at the peak of your violin days! Viktor, I don’t know what you have told this boy, but he needs to be treated with more respect than you’ve given him. I know that you feel uncomfortable with him knowing who you are, but imagine how confident he’ll feel knowing that both of us, his heroes, think his playing is amazing! Viktor please, please tell him!” Chris begs. Viktor nods slowly, taking the words to heart. He knows that he’d need to tell Yuuri one day, but he also knows that it is far more important to not overwhelm Yuuri, having him meet Chris had proved that much to him.

“I’ll tell him one day… I just want to be sure he won't resent me for lying. I want to help him, not piss him off,” Viktor sighs, hoping Chris would understand. Chris looks as if he still feels Viktor’s methods are wrong, but his shoulders slump as he gives a sigh.

“Viktor, I just hope things play out as you imagine them to,” Chris resigns. “I wish you luck, and pray to god you don’t fuck this up.” Chris pokes Viktor’s chest firmly to emphasize his last few words.

“Thank you for your concern. I’ll try not to fuck up,” Viktor says.

“Good, cause if you won’t take him, then I will,” Chris teases. Viktor throws out his lower lip in a royal pout.

“Well then I definitely won’t mess up, because I would rather die than see Yuuri become a Giacometti,” Viktor huffs. Chris simply smirks, turning on his heel to make his way upstairs.

When Viktor returns, it’s to Yuuri sitting beside his violin case on the couch, patting the poof of fur still claiming it as her home. If there had been time, Viktor would have photographed the moment for his phone wallpaper, but Yuuri notices his entrance and greets him with a small smile.

“I’m not dreaming, am I?” Yuuri asks, raising his brows. “I think I must be.”

“If anyone’s dreaming, it would have to be me,” Viktor retorts without missing a beat, only to realize what Yuuri would probably say next.

“Why would you be dreaming? This is a normal day for you,” Yuuri asks with a laugh. Viktor desperately wants to sit at Yuuri’s feet then, rest his head in his lap and say, _because it has you in it_. Instead, he walks to the kitchen, thinking hard on something else to say. His eyes fall to where the violin once stood.

“It’s not everyday that Chris calls someone a genius,” Viktor sighs casually. “Anything to drink?” He offers. Yuuri lets out a squeak, then clears his throat and tries again.

“He said that?” Yuuri’s eyes are wide, and he looks like he’d very much like to melt into the fabric of the couch. Viktor gives him a warm smirk.

“He did, he thinks very highly of you, Yuuri. How about water?” Viktor asks, pulling a cup from the cupboard and already filling it with just that.

“Oh… sure,” Yuuri agrees, all sorts of flustered.

Viktor looks to Yuuri briefly before taking a breath and walking over to him. “He says that he’d like Viktor to come over and hear you play some time, too...if you’d like.”

Yuuri looks like he might faint. “V-Viktor! No, no! I couldn’t, I’d throw up, in fact, I might now just thinking about it! I’m a nervous wreck as it is. Tell him not to do that, please!” Yuuri begs. Viktor nods, sighing for only a breath before returning his smile to his face, and passing Yuuri the glass of water.

“I’ll let him know about the puke threat, that is sure to convince him to sit on his hands.” Viktor chuckles warmly. In his mind, Viktor cradles Yuuri’s cheek in his palm, leaning in… he doesn’t, straightening and stepping out of Yuuri’s range before he can do anything stupid.

Chris returns, and as had been his word, he brings out his sheet music to lay before Yuuri, encouraging him to pick a song. Viktor watches them quietly, drinking the wine Chris had opened for this occasion, and seeing the small changes Chris makes in Yuuri. Head high, back straight, tutoring him without being asked. He is giving Yuuri a private violin lesson for the price of his time. It is indeed a beautiful thing to see the one of your affections getting along with your closest friend.

Around eight o’clock, Viktor rises from his chair to call for take out, asking Yuuri if there is anything he’d like. He already knows, at least, that anything that isn’t in a fancy restaurant, would be met with the same level of distaste from Chris as the next dish. It is then that Yuuri realizes the time, suddenly far too eager to get out the door.

“What’s the hurry Cinderella?” Chris teases. Yuuri pauses in throwing on his coat to find the second sleeve, giving Chris an apologetic look.

“My apartment has curfew of ten, and I still haven’t told my friend where I am. He must be freaking out,” Yuuri frets, at last tugging his coat on. He pulls his phone from his pocket and quickly taps out a rapidfire text, then shoves the clumsily back into his jacket. Chris waltzes over to retrieve Sweetpea from Yuuri’s now practically white violin case, stroking her long fur as she snuggles against his shoulder.

“Anything you need before you hit the road?” Chris asks. Yuuri looks up so quickly his glasses slip down his nose a little.

“What? Oh! Yes, there is one thing.” Yuuri digs through his bag and pulls out the wad of cash that Viktor has been trying so hard to avoid. Viktor feels a wave of guilt and shame as Yuuri presses the money into his hand, and Chris's expression doesn’t help the guilt either.

“Yuuri…” Viktor starts, searching for an excuse, only to be cut off by Yuuri himself.

“I know you’ve been avoiding it, and I know I must look pretty poor to you and like I need this more than you do. But I was raised by a mother who would kick my ass if I didn’t give this to you, so you take it without any arguments, okay?” Yuuri forces Viktor’s palm closed, giving him a fierce look. Viktor avoids looking at Chris at all costs, though looking into Yuuri’s strips him of all options but to sigh and bow his head.

“Thank you Yuuri, I’m sorry if I offended you in any way,” Viktor resigns.

Yuuri gives a huff, before laughing a little. “To make it up to me, you should help me find the nearest station. I have no idea where I am right now.” From the look Chris gives, Viktor has no choice but to agree, not that he’d really let this wonderful Yuuri wander the streets alone, even in the safest part of the city.

Yuuri gathers his bags, thumping both on his back before giving Chris a bow, and a deeply sincere thank you, to which Chris laughs good naturedly, and waves the notion away like it’s nothing. Then Viktor and Yuuri both embark on their way down to the ground floor, walking in the dusk lighting of the residential streets, all in complete silence. They don’t need words, Viktor thinks, he really is quite happy to just be near Yuuri. This is more than enough.

Though all good things must, at one point or another, end.

“So, this is the station.” Viktor hums. Yuuri nods, his face flushed a brilliant shade, the warmth in Viktor’s cheeks suggesting that he’s not far behind. Yuuri grinds the toe of his shoe into the ground, arms behind his back, wringing his hands, his motions seeming very bashful given the current atmosphere.

“Makka..?” Yuuri’s mouth stays agape for a moment longer than the name, before swiftly clicking shut again. He hums in apprehension, staring at the ground and pulling his arms in front of himself now, almost defensive as he runs his palm up his other arm.

“What is it Yuuri?”

“I had fun tonight.”

“Me too.”

“A _lot_ of fun,” Yuuri says, his rubbing motions moving to the back of his neck now.

“Can we,” Viktor swallows, “Can we do this again?” Yuuri’s eyes dart away from Viktor as quickly as they had gazed up to meet him. That, combined with a small nod, makes Viktor’s heart flutter. As the train comes screeching up the tracks, the fidgeting stops and Yuuri’s hands finally drop and still at his sides. A deep inhale through Yuuri’s nose is audible right before one of those hands reaches up to twist itself in Viktor’s scarf.

“Yuu-” Viktor can’t even spit out the name entirely before a wave of surprise hits him square on the cheek in the form of lips softer than dreams themselves. “--ri…”

“Thanks, for tonight,” Yuuri manages, before pushing Viktor to arms length, releasing him as the train comes to a halt, and jumping through the now open doors before Viktor has time to react. Yuuri doesn’t miss much, really, just Viktor’s knees buckling as he falls back into a sign or tree or fire hydrant or--

 _It doesn’t even matter because Yuuri kissed me_ Viktor stares off into space, completely in a daze as the train rolls off.

Oh.

_Oh._

_Maybe there is a god after all._

 

* * *

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
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	3. So Long You Fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ever thought of calling when you've had a few?_   
>  _'Cause I always do_   
>  _Maybe I'm too busy being yours to fall for somebody new_   
>  _Now I've thought it through...._   
> 

Fingers drum rhythmically against the wooden table, tapping out notes that no one can hear. Its spider-like dance is slow and graceful to the sound of its own thoughts, its spindly legs mocking that of music. Viktor leans his head on his free hand, looking down at his phone, listening to an old recording. It is of course Yuuri playing from that first week when Viktor had only just discovered him, back when he was intimidated by his music.

“Yuuri…” Viktor breathes to himself, laying his fingers flat his tapping ending all at once. What a perfect and beautiful name, befitting the owner of similar qualities. Viktor can’t help himself but to smile, rising out of his chair to spin on the ball of his Italian leather shoes, and move to the rhythm of the music. His feet are clumsy, steps really nothing incredible to look at, but he doesn’t mind one bit. 

Viktor cannot remember a time he’s been so happy, so head over heels, blown away, delirious for another person. And for whom? What brilliantly bright, warm, and kind individual could transform a musician as clumsy as Viktor on his feet, into a dancing fool of a man?

“Yuuri,” He hums, pretending to dip the beautiful man close to the floor. He slides a foot back to lift his invisible partner to stand at his side again. Viktor raises a hand, guiding Yuuri in the box step, leading him around in a few half turns and smiling dumbly at the man he pretends to hold. Just thinking of how pretty it is to see Yuuri smiling back at him makes Viktor’s face beam with a wide grin. He leaps into a single footed spin, nearly toppling back as he regains his balance. He truly can't dance, but is so happy he can’t manage to contain the rhythm of his joy to just his fingers.

“Oh, Yuuri. Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri,” Viktor sings, laughing a little at the tail end of it, thinking to himself how foolish he must sound, but how can he possibly care when he’s met someone to make him melt just from the sound of his name alone?

“What!” A voice cuts into Viktor’s music, chopping the daydream down like an ax. Viktor turns abruptly to the voice, and is met with the piercing green eyes of a very grumpy looking adolescent. He feels a sudden wave of embarrassment noting Yakov at the child’s side. Yakov is of course wearing his by now trademark glare. “Why do you keep saying my name! It’s creepy.” Viktor’s hands rush to his phone to pause the video, clearing his throat as he shoves the device into his pocket.

“Vitya…” Yakov groans, “This is Yuri Plisetsky, one of my private students. He’s here to play the wind solo in our upcoming concert. He’s new here; I have to run Georgi and Mila’s piece before the auditions take over the stage. Chris has an “appointment” today,” Yakov rolls his eyes, indicating that said appointment was very last minute, “and since you have time goof off it would be really helpful if you could show Yuri around.” Yakov adds the last part with a small scoff. Viktor was after all supposed to be practicing on his own.

“Oh? Sure thing, nice to meet you uh…” Viktor’s voice trails off, the name catching in his throat.

“Yuri.” The young man - this, ‘Yuri’, as it were - scoffs, “You were moaning it enough, you’d think you’d remember it after that?” Yuri turns to Yakov, “early set alzheimer's maybe? You should have him checked out.” Yakov gives a huff of a laugh.

“Surprisingly, Viktor is entirely sane. Equally as surprising, he’s also your senior, so you’d better show him proper respect. You two will be spending more time together.” Yakov scolds. Yuri rolls his eyes, but at such an angle that Yakov misses it clearly directed solely at Viktor. Yuri shifts the small silvery case of a wind instrument into his left hand then begrudgingly thrusts his hand with black nail polish and a diamond studded skull ring on his middle finger.

“It’s nice to meet you.” Viktor shakes the significantly smaller hand, still feeling a bit taken aback. If he were to guess, Yuri is in his pre-teens, about eleven or twelve years of age. To be a student of Yakov’s and play with his quartet in the autumn performance, meant he must be good. Likely a child prodigy. Viktor seems to recall mention of a new talent Yakov had taken under his wing, though when he had heard it, he didn’t expect someone so young.

“Sure.” Yuri shrugs, yanking his hand away from Viktor and wiping it on the front of his hooded vest. Viktor gives a cocky smile at the rude gesture, already guessing this was going to be one of those days.

“Alright Yuri, this is the lounge.” Viktor says in a condescending tone.

Yuri clicks his tongue, “I can tell that much asshat, I’m not stupid.”

“Boys, please,” Yakov sighs, “don't kill each other… I need you both in one piece when I get back.” 

“Scouts honor we'll be good,” Viktor wink.

“I was taught to respect old people.” Yuri shrugs. Viktor gave him a sharp smile, Yuri looked smug. 

Yakov points a finger at both of them for a few moments, shaking his head adding a “you better be,” before making his exit.

“So, is Yuuri your ex?” Yuri asks after Yakov is gone, turning a toothy grin towards Viktor. Viktor pulls Yuri’s fur lined hood up over his blond head in passing.

“Not an ex, also none of your concern.” Viktor says, gesturing for Yuri to follow him.

“So then, someone who dumped you but you don’t accept it yet?” Yuri doesn’t so much ask as decide. Viktor ignores the petulant child, walking him from the comfy lounge to a small recreational area, waving through the door. 

“This is the green room, it leads directly to the stage through that door. Those two doors lead to changing rooms,” Viktor directs, waving his hand at each object. Yuri nods, folding his arms tightly over his chest, then turns to look at Viktor through his curtain of hair falling barely into his eyes.

“So, I’m guessing you got dumped hard core then?” Yuri raises his brows with far more ridicule than a child his size should contain. Viktor takes a calming breath, continuing.

“The vending machines are as priced, though with your orchestra ID they are free, so try and remember to bring it.” Viktor turns to Yuri, looking him over. “It looks as if you don’t have one quite yet, we’ll do that at the office later.” Viktor shrugs, moving along with his tour.

“Did they dump you because you’ve got lady hair?” Yuri pries, referring to the messy bun on the top of Viktors head. Viktor looks away ignoring Yuri. “Is it ‘cause you smell like a creepy grandma?” Yuri tries again. Viktor sets his jaw, forcing himself to ignore the kid.

“Down here are the practice rooms. If you need one, you’ll need to sign up at the rental desk. Though I’m fairly sure Yakov will handle most of that for you in future.”

“Is it because you have lady hair AND smell like a creepy grandma?” Yuri decides, pointing to the offending features. Viktor comes to a halt, looking over the smirking gremlin.

“Aren’t you a little young to be caring about other people’s romance?” Viktor snaps. Yuri shoots the much taller man a very unintimidating glare.

“If you’re going to be moaning my name I should at least know why.” Yuuri states so logically that Viktor wants to flick him, but knows that he’s not in the right to do so, it is a valid argument.

“Moaning shouldn’t be in your vernacular.” Viktor dismisses. 

“And you shouldn’t be using vernacular to condescend a kid in order to inflate your ego.” Yuri retorts. Of course a prodigy would happen to know a needlessly large word. Viktor decides to take a different approach, crouching down to Yuuri’s level and smiling perhaps a bit too widely.

“Okay then, how about we play a game. I’ll ask you a question, and then you can ask me a question. How’s that?” 

“Fine.” Yuri agrees. Viktor leans his weight into his hands pressing on his knees, smiling.

“Do you really want to be here?” Viktor asks, trying to sound like someone a child could confide in. Yuri seems to contemplate the question for a moment, then gives a nod as if in confirmation.

“They dumped you because your forehead is so big, didn’t they?” Yuri asks, “I’d dump you over that, so any other Yuuri with good sense would too.” Viktor takes a slow and shaky breath.

“You’re supposed to answer my question first.” Viktor imagines being anywhere but here, far away from the child assigned to his care. 

“You never said that.” Yuri points out openly gloating. “Next game.” Viktor wonders how long it will be until Yakov takes his bratty prodigy back to wherever it is that he pulled him out of in the first place, and maybe this time leave him there. How could Yakov think this kid would ever be more than just a brat was beyond Viktor.

“Oh, how about the quiet game?” Viktor suggests, wearily rubbing his temples. Yuri rolls his eyes and folds his arms.

“I hate that game,” Yuri complains.

“Does that mean you give up?” Viktor asks. Yuri says nothing in response. Viktor grins, fighting the urge to give an audible sigh of relief. Finally, some peace. Viktor leads the boy through the practice rooms, letting him watch the students play and enjoying the lack of commentary. 

Viktor is unsure of why Yakov had set up the two of them, making it sound like there was a reason for it. Yuri would’ve done better with Chris who has all the patients in the worlds and the ability to laugh anything off. Yuri and Viktor have nothing in common either, so it’s not as if they would make a great team. Perhaps the point was simply that Yakov wanted Viktor to suffer. It is very likely as simple as that. 

They continue to the end of the hall, and Viktor thinks about later that day when he will meet Yuuri once more. He wonders if Yuuri will mention that kiss, or if it will be up to Viktor to ask. Or maybe he’s not meant to say a thing he's just meant to know. Viktor hopes it is an invitation, as he wants nothing more than to take Yuuri’s face in his hands, and kiss him again and again. 

It takes Viktor probably too long to notice he’s missing his responsibility, doing a quick turn and seeing the child walking in the opposite direction. 

“Hey, Yuri!” Viktor calls, starting to jog after the stubborn blond. The child turns at his name, sending a smirk Viktor’s way.

“You lose again grandpa.” It’s not even the words, or the cheating, just the gloating expression is enough to put Viktor on edge.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Viktor scolds.

“Dunno, following you silently got boring.” Yuri sighs, thumping his small square case on the back of his legs. “Where do all the musicians keep their instruments?” Yuri asks when Viktor finally catches up to him.

“They generally keep them on hand at all times.” Viktor wonders if he might just lock Yuri in a practice room until Yakov returns. That wasn’t neglectful right? After all the kid is presumably a musician, this is fitting place for him. That, and the idea of Yuri being locked away in a soundproof room seems very appealing to Viktor. 

“Even when they need to take a shit?” Yuri crudely asks as they walk past an open and quiet room, Viktor briefly fantasizes about tossing the child in and in fact locking him in there. The only thing to stop him, is the long lecture Yakov would give him which included, but not limited to, death threats and prison.

“We typically make friends in our respective ensembles, so we have someone to hold onto our instruments when times like that arise.”

“Wow, you don’t even have a basic lockers to keep your instruments in? What kind of shady business goes down around here? Do you have instrument dealers who will steal and sell your instrument right out from under you? Talk about mistrust, I don’t know what friends you’re talking about.”

“We do have lockers, but it’s not so much that we worry about each other, as we do a stranger. Besides that, these instruments are our lives, if we lose them we are without meaning.” Viktor attempts to calmly explain. Yuri gives a snort, shaking his head. “Are you saying you’d be okay if someone stole your--?” Viktor gestures to Yuri’s instrument, waiting for a reply.

“Flute. And no, my mom would buy me a new one. It’s just a Flute.”

Viktor smirks, “You can’t so easily replace a hand crafted italian antique like mine, or an instrument like what my friend owns, handcrafted by a genius who has now passed, it carries the music of the ages, it shares it skill with you, and makes your art come to life.”

“Yeah? And where is your instrument if it means so much to you.”

“With the rest of my quartet. My trusted friends.” 

“Your keep saying that like you’re trying to tell me something, it’s annoying.” Yuri scoffs, scrunching his nose in disgust. Viktor opens his mouth to argue, only to be cut off. “What do you even play? Like the theremin, or something else annoying?” 

“Viola.” Viktor says, trying hard not to show how much he’s gritting his teeth.

“You are really loud for violist.” Yuri snorts. Viktor takes a deep breath.

“How about I show you the orchestra hall.” Viktor resigns.

They work their way around the orchestra hall behind the stage around the hallways, in the waiting rooms and so on, finally settling down in the padded seats facing the stage somewhere near the middle. Mila and Georgi are practicing their parts for the performance the following week. Mila keeps playing too fast, while Georgi’s tempo matches Yakov's hands but keeps trying to shift following the wrong tempo Mila plays. Yuri has his feet on the seat in front of him, scrolling through his phone and paying zero attention to the performers, even though Viktor had instructed him to “listen to them”. 

The room fills with another attempt, this time more fluid and easy, harmonic and beautiful. Viktor nods to himself, turning to look down at Yuri’s phone, seeing the child reading an article of some sort, one Yuri quickly closed when Viktor leaned over to snoop. Yuri has no respect for what he has decided to make his profession, and honestly, Viktor is sure he’s only here because his parents force him to be. Yet he knows there must be something in this kid to have Yakov let him play with their quartet, but Viktor can't see it.

“Come on squirt.” Viktor says, slapping the back of his hand on Yuri’s leg.

“To where? I thought we were listening to them screw up.” Yuri complains without moving. Viktor strolls up to the stage sliding his viola off waving a grin at Georgi who’s quietly looking over the room as Yakov tries to convince Mila to stop playing ‘her version’ of the song. 

Viola in hand Viktor strolls back to the seats. Yuri is still glued to his phone. That simply wouldn't do. Viktor reaches forward and snatches Yuri's phone. Yuri is on his feet faster than he can make a proper sentence reaching up for his phone. “What the hell? Give it back asshole!” Viktor doesn't even have to stand on his toes to hold the device out of Yuri's reach, even with the preteen hopping up to reach it.

“Grab your flute, we’re playing another game.”

“Give me my phone!” Yuri takes a threat onto his tone, one that really doesn't intimidate when you are his height. Viktor turns out of the aisle, taking Yuri's phone with him. Naturally, Yuri follows, though not quietly, “Where the hell do you think you’re going!” Viktor clicks his tongue in disgust at the colors Yuri embellishes his language with.

“How well can you sight read?” Viktor asks once they step out into the hall. 

“Like a book-- what are you doing!” Yuri snaps as Viktor lifts the phone over his head, extending his arm as he takes a picture of himself suavely smiling while a pissed Yuri stalks behind him, attempting to retrieve his phone. “Delete that!” 

“No, I think it's a good angle.” Viktor chuckles, finally enjoying their time together. Yuri attempts a leap to take the phone, but only manages to trip forward as Viktor side steps. “I think I’ll send it to myself. Aw, what a pretty kitten.” Viktor coos, digging through the gallery to find the picture he took, and finding a large amount of cat pictures.

“Fuck you! Give it back!” Yuri hisses, punching Viktor's shoulder. Not strongly, it hardly even hurts, mostly just rude. Viktor Turns to the boy, sending him an incredulous look. Then scrolls farther down.

“Kitten, kitten, kitten, sunset, ah there they are, selfies. What an angsty angle, I’m sure you're all the rage in middle school.” Viktor teases. Yuri turns red, though it's hard to tell if it's from embarrassment or rage.

“Eat a fucking dick.” Yuri whips his flute case around violently, just missing Viktor’s hip. 

“Temper,” Viktor chuckles, moving forward. Yuri looks ready to scream, and Viktor can't help but feel the smallest bit guilty, but also very satisfied by the reaction. “You'll turn into Yakov if you keep this up.” 

“Better him than an idiot who dances by themselves in public.” Yuri snaps. Viktor ignores the child, sending himself the picture and then scrolling through Yuri's instagram. He can't help noticing not a lot of people in the pictures Yuri posts, there's only one of a kid who appears to be his age, and a couple who look to be his parents and that's all. the rest are spanning over aesthetic scenes such as sunsets, practice rooms, and shaded walls. Then there is also the kitten, who looks to be a week old according to her appearance on his timeline. Lastly of course lots of selfies. Viktor follows his own Instagram page from Yuri's profile, and just barely dodges another snatch attempt from Yuri.

“Have you ever accompanied strings before?” Viktor clicks the phone off, holding above his head and walking backwards to gauge Yuri's reaction.

“Of course I have. Give me back my phone now, shit head!” Yuri must be swearing just to get a reaction at this point, as it's clearly not getting him what he wants which is why the words are getting more insulting. Viktor turns, taking the last few steps to the practice rooms walking up to the desk, a boy who looks to be about college age meets him, then does a quick double take clearly recognizing Viktor. Yuri smacks his head against the wall as Viktor makes the exchange, earning a raised eyebrow from the man passing Viktor the sign-in sheet. Viktor gives a winning smile, making the already starstruck student forget to give Viktor the room key. 

Viktor with viola in hand, takes Yuri into room 7 and sits him down.

“Play me an A.” Viktor instructs, flicking open the case of his viola, tucking it under his chin and waiting patiently. Yuri begrudgingly opens the case to his flute, assembling the silver pieces and then standing stiffly in front of Viktor and playing A. Viktor takes the sound and quickly tunes the viola to it, then places it back in the case sits back, watching Yuri. “Play me a song you love playing.” Yuri blinks as if the words are foreign.

“I don't have sheet music.” Yuri points out.

“You don't have anything memorized?” Viktor asks. Yuri scowls, bringing the metal to his lips and playing his part from the autumn consert. The notes are accurate and precise, not a note out of place or out of tune, completely free of any sort of tricks or trills, simply straightforward and correct. It is played exactly as it is written. Viktor holds up his hand, lifting the viola to his chin.

Without words, Viktor plays back exactly what Yuri played, spine straight and keeping absolutely still. The song comes out just the same; even and correct.

“What do you hear?” Viktor asks. Yuri raises a brow.

“You playing what I did?” Yuri asks, wearing the biggest expression of, ‘I don't care’, that Viktor has ever seen.

“Good, now listen again.” Viktor repeats the stanza, now adding a mournful sustain and wide vibrato to the somber notes, making the music come alive under his fingers. He stops, looking up to Yuri. “What do you hear?”

Yuri blinks slowly before settling on, “A viola playing a flute solo.” Viktor gives Yuri a once over, then shakes his head, giving a sigh. This Yuri is nothing like the other. Where Yuuri would have brought life to a piece, this child brought accuracy. They are opposites in nearly every way. Yuuri makes mistakes, but filled a room with life. Yuri plays every note, but left you checking your watch.

Dull. 

“Yes...” Viktor sighs, “From the top? You play the solo.” Yuri brings the flute to his lips and does as he’s told. They practice, and Viktor makes minor comments here and there, all of which Yuri ignores and looks as if he's going to willfully forget every word of them. Viktor finds he doesn't care, though. He just wants to see Yuuri, to play like life mattered, this new realization making his basic desire into a craving, or he'd dare say almost a need.

When they finish up, Viktor signs out and together they head back to the main hall in silence. Well, somewhat in silence, as Yuri - upon the return of his phone - has covered his ears with music loud enough for Viktor to hear. If the practice session hadn't left him emotionally drained, Viktor would have taken the phone again and lowered the music to save the boy's hearing. only to decide it’s not worth it, as he recalls exactly the reaction he’ll get.

They step into the auditorium and are immediately met by an impatient shout from Yakov.

“Viktor! I can't get ahold of Chris! If you're hiding some date he's on or something I swear to god!” Of course Viktor's already getting yelled at, and Yuri seems to have heard as well, wearing an especially cocky smirk. Viktor rests his elbow on the child’s head, leaning weight on him passively.

“I haven't heard anything! He said he’d be ready by noon.” Viktor exclaims. Yuri shoves Viktor off him grumbling something about him being a ‘fatass’. Yakov whips out his phone, tapping the screen and leaning it against his ear. Chris is notoriously late, in some cases so bad that he’s nearly been fired, but always comes through in the end. To be fair though, in the last month Viktor has been known to either slip out early, or even not show up to practice at all to watch Yuuri. 

Yakov swears loudly in Russian, before shoving his phone in his pocket glaring back at the room slowly filling with musicians for the ongoing auditions. Viktor assumes that means they're calling it a day. Which comes in handy because as it is Viktor is running late to meet Yuuri -- something he’d normally never do intentionally, but especially not now after Yuuri had kissed his cheek. Even as a friendly gesture, it's rude to just blow someone off like that.

“We going to call it?” Viktor prays. Yakov shakes his head.

“No, Yuri needs to practice, we're going to a practice rooms, you're playing Chris's part.” 

“On my viola?” Viktor asks stubbornly, turning a sharp look in Yakov's direction, almost a challenge.

“Can you do just one practice on violin?” Yakov asks wearily. Viktor cannot, in fact, do that. He switched to viola for a reason, and he will stay with it.

“I can't play right-handed anymore.” Viktor argues. 

“Viktor, can you maybe for just one rehearsal not be difficult?” Yakov massages his skull in exasperation.

“I can step in.” Georgi offers quietly. Yakov shoots him a glare, then sighs.

“Fine. Doesn't matter anyway.” Yakov growls. Viktor blows Georgi a kiss and mouths a thank you. 

“Why don't you play Violin?” Yuri asks suddenly, almost appearing out of nowhere with his comment. Viktor looks the child over, deciding this boy couldn't understand the complexities of why Viktor refuses to play what was once his signature instrument. Yuri will find the scarring memories boring at most, and likely consider Viktor petty or stupid at best. Instead Viktor tugs Yuri's hood over his eyes and walks out of the hall with the quartet.

Yakov spends far longer drilling the performance in than usual, having them play the hour long set, then going over each song one at a time and always finding something wrong or having them start over. They play so much that Yuri ended having to take a break to keep from passing out. About the time Yakov is going to send them home, Chris bursts in with his poor sense of timing. After that, Chris receives a 10 minute lecture which doubles over into 20 when Chris finally explains he's late because after his salon appointment he passed out with his cat. 

Viktor isn't the only one glued to his watch at this point, Mila muttering something about a date at the rollerblading rink she has planned for later, Georgi checking his phone and texting someone quickly, and Yuri looking like anything in the whole world would have been better than being here right now. 

Yakov gives a weighted sigh, then at last settles on practicing the three songs with Yuri before sending him home. After which, the rest of the quartet practices the full set once more top to bottom. No one can really blame Chris, as this is the average rehearsal time before a performance, but there is a palpable tension as the time ticks by.

At last, Yakov cuts them off, throwing his hands up and shaking his head.

“You've done well today, but go home. You're all starting to sound like a pond full of cats forced to have a bath. Go home and have fun, relax, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” The room itself almost gives a sigh of relief at Yakov's words, as if at last everyone relaxed into how exhausted they actually are. 

The four stand stretching and popping muscles and limbs, the room filling with the shuffling and the hollow thunks of wooden bodies as they are being laid down in their padded beds.

“Chris, real quick before you go. Which outfit will impress a girl more, do you think?” Mila asks, thrusting her phone under Chris's nose and swiping back and forth between two pictures. Chris leans forward, pressing his round glasses up on his nose, before giving a definitive nod.

“I like this one better, but this one is more bold and fun.” Mila nods, then whips the phone towards Georgi.

“If you saw a girl wearing this one, would she look like she's trying too hard?” Mila asks. Georgi gives a quiet hum before shrugging slightly.

“I think if a woman I like wears what she wants, she is beautiful no matter what.” Georgi offers in a sweet and polite tone. Mila purses her lips. 

“Viktor, these two are no help with fashion, what do you think?” And at last Mila shoves the phone under Viktor’s scrutiny. Viktor gives an equally unhelpful shrug, to both outfits.

“I think Chris and Georgi are both right. this one is nice this one is bold and you are beautiful no matter what you wear.” Viktor settles. Mila rolls her eyes.

“I need more female friends you men are all useless.” She sighs heftung her cello case onto her back. 

“We’d be more helpful if you maybe told us what this was about?” Chris Purrs, stepping to stand shoulder to shoulder with Mila. Mila turns thumping him with the hard case of her instrument.

“Nothing.” Mila teases with a grin, making her way down the hall, Chris follows close behind, Georgi moving at a respectable distance. Viktor only half listened, checking his phone, and feeling his heart sink as he realized he is more than late. he is so late it is very likely Yuuri finished his set and headed home for dinner. 

“Okay fine. I was coming out of my dorm right? and this beautiful girl walks past. she waved to me and I thought oh that’s the end of it right? wrong! She showed up again 4 times that day! So I asked her to lunch, we ate. Then she mentions there's a girls night at this skate rink by the stadium, I told her, ‘I love skating’, so that's where we are going tonight. The situation is I have never skated in my life so the plan is if I’m going to be falling on my ass I gotta be cute as hell right?” 

Viktor pulls away from the conversation to grab a water bottle from the vending machine. He's messed up. Yuuri will hate him, heck Viktor hated himself! He doesn't even have a phone number to call and apologize into. There is no way Yuuri would wait around an extra hour just to say hi. even if he had kissed Viktor square on the mouth, there was no way someone could have that kind of patients. 

With a sigh Viktor pulls his beanie over his head, collecting his water bottle from the chute and makes his way outside. His friends long gone, making their separate ways. 

It is leaning against the front doors, using the auditorium Wifi to find the next bus, that Viktor becomes aware of a person sitting at the foot of the stairs just off the parking lot. He’s is small, and hunched over their phone so it makes sense how no one had noticed him before. It takes Viktor only half a moment to realize it is Yuri. Viktor is suddenly struck with a wave of sympathy and guilt. Thinking back to when a much smaller version of himself sat waiting just as Yuri does now. 

Yakov had sent Yuri home nearly an hour ago. which could only mean that was exactly as long as he’d been sitting around waiting for. Viktor looks down at his phone, seeing the next bus scheduled to arrive in about 15 minutes at the bus stop a 10 minute walk from here. weighing his options. He so badly wants to see Yuuri, to aggressively apologize and beg for forgiveness. but Viktor knows full well how shitty it is to not have power over his transport, to depend on others to cart you too and from with no control. 

Viktor at last shuts off his phone, sighing as he makes his way down the steps, plopping himself down next to the child once more listening to music far too loud for his own good. Yuri doesn't notice him at first, then does a double take to see Viktor sitting there. He furrows his brows, glaring.

“Don't you have a different Yuri to bug?”

“Would you like something to drink?” 

“No. go away.” Yuri snaps. Viktor leans on his fist.

“If you don't tell me I’ll guess wrong and you'll have to drink something you hate.” Viktor says in a sing song tone. Yuri’s glare only intensified.

“You don’t have to baby me, Yakov only asked you to show me around, I can manage now.” Yuri hisses. Viktor says nothing, looking at Yuri expectantly. The silence carries for a few minutes before Yuri resigns.

“I don’t know, sprite or something?”

“We have sprite, or mountain dew, root beer, coke, and fanta. Also water and green tea.” Viktor lists. Yuri gives a rolling shrug.

“Sprite I guess.” Yuri says pulling his headphones back on almost defensively. Viktor smiles warmly at the boy, before leaving quickly to get the drinks, making a point to leave his viola on the step beside Yuri. 

It doesn’t take long before he returns, passing Yuri his drink and cracking open his own water, looking over the parking lot in silence. Viktor feels there is something he should say, some nugget of wisdom or advice that he as an adult musician can pass along to a younger one. Some karate kid wax on wax off nonsense, but in all honesty Vikor has nothing to give. Viktor is extremely bad with words on many levels to begin with, so trying to form them into wisdom isn’t a thing he’d normally plan on, especially not for such a spiteful child. 

Viktor isn’t sure what to even say. ‘I know it sucks now kid but one day you’ll be famous and twice as lonely’? No he’d better just let the minute pass, the two of them sitting quietly, watching traffic come and go, drinking in silence. He did wonder what Yuri thought of him, wondered if maybe he’d been silly to make the assumption Yuri wanted company. He’d always wanted company when parents or guardians were late, but is Yuri the same? Who knows.

In about the time it take for Viktor to drink down half of his water bottle Yuri stood, waving at a car waiting at the light. Yuri picks up his flute and turning to look at Viktor still seated on the cool marble, smiling softly. He doesn’t say anything either, looking over Viktor with an expression that Viktor isn’t acquainted enough with Yuri to translate, but suddenly realizes he’d one day like to know it.

Yuri saunters off, hopping into the car, looking back only once before the light changes. Viktor stands wiping dirt off his long camel hair coat, lifting his viola to his back and once more pulling out his phone to search for a bus. Really by this point he should just drive his car to work, but finds the waiting for traffic to be just as bad, if not worse, than walking. As it was, he didn’t even feel like waiting up for a bus. After a few minutes of moping he found himself a cab, settling into the back. 

“Where to?” The cabbie asks. Viktor leans his head against the seat sighing to himself thinking of where he lives, and where he wants to go. Where he wanted to go made no logical sense though. Yuuri wouldn’t be there so why should Viktor even go? It is pointless.

“Do you know of the Cafe off fifth ave? Cuppa Joe’s?”

“Yeah.” 

“There please.” Viktor can’t even believe himself, there is no way Yuuri will stick around an hour after he’d normally call it a night. The sun is setting, Viktor notes dimly. Who in their right mind would see even the sun giving up on Viktor, and then continue to wait. Yuuri had a friend who’d worry, Viktor remembers, A place to be. Why on gods green earth would he wait around for some awkward violist?

The drive is silent, the cabby mentioning something about a broken radio. That’s just fine with Viktor. Music at this moment would have felt mocking, and bitter. Silence is what he needs, looking out the window, watching the street pass by. 

The city swam in red and gold light, shadows stretching long and thin across the streets. They look like fingers, reaching out across the world, as one would to play piano. Smooth and slow, the sound of a cello sweeps alongside the piano’s notes, joined by the soft tiss of symbols. The music is never in those instruments, never so defined. In the city, the shadows played the click and shuffle of shoes on pavement, a base line of engines revving into the night, making a beat from the sounds of people talking and laughing. Beautiful and endless, the sound of silence. 

The car stopped at a light, one Viktor new quite well, probably better than his own street at this point. From here he could see the wall, that Yuuri played against, the painted and tagged brick he used as a stage. Viktor worried that he couldn’t hear violin, his gut twisting in regret as the car turned pulling up to the cafe. Yuuri was gone. 

Even the consolation of previously guessing this was how it was going to be, Viktor still felt terrible. He’d abandoned Yuuri. And worse still, Yuuri wasn’t willing to wait another half hour for Viktor. It isn’t Yuuri’s fault really. What man would wait that long? Viktor couldn’t expect a stranger to wait, even if he’d hoped so much it were possible. 

“Seven fifty.” the cabby stated, Viktor passes up a ten.

“Keep the change.” Viktor may have muttered, sliding out of the cab, tugging his viola with him. He walked to the pavement, turning round to face the brick across the street. Looking forlorn and lost. Why did he bother coming back, when he knew Yuuri wouldn’t show up? Is it just so ingrained in his daily schedule now that he’d have to come, even when there is nothing to see? It isn’t the muffin’s that’s for sure. Somehow though, a shitty muffin felt like a fitting end to this day. An allegory or simile or something.

“Makka?” Wow, Viktor must be pretty pathetic to hear Yuuri’s voice even when he wasn’t truly there. Viktor gives a sigh, turning to go buy and not eat the shitty muffin, and then comes to a stop blinking at the outdoor tables in front of the cafe, specifically at the man seated at one of the tables. Is it possible Viktor is legitimately going insane? The man smiles, standing to his feet and walks up to Viktor.

“Hey, I was starting to think you wouldn’t come.” the man chirps. Viktor can’t seem to believe what his eyes are telling him. What insane person would wait possibly an entire hour to see if MAYBE Viktor would show up? Who could possibly be that patient to then greet one overly late Viktor with a smile as if nothing has happened.

“Yuuri?” Viktor asks, shaking his head.

“Yes?” Yuuri answers laughing a little. It could be no one else, and yet, why does it feel so unreal to Viktor?

“You waited?” Viktor’s surprize may have seeped into his tone, as Yuuri’s ears turn a little pink.

“Well I normally play to around six or seven, and I thought why not just play a little longer, it’s my job after all.” Yuuri explains shyly. Viktor isn’t sure if he’s allowed to, but he desperately wants to hug Yuuri. Is a hug appropriate after a kiss on the cheek? And does a cheek kisses equal to a ‘nice to meet you three pat hug’ or a ‘long crushing embrace’? Viktor is suddenly very aware of how inexperienced he is in these types of things.

“I’m ah, uh.” Viktor stumbles to find words, feeling so overwhelmed by the shift in mood he finds it difficult to respond. “Thank you, for.” Viktor waves into the air with his free hand. Willing his brain to work but feeling it abandon ship as he met Yuuri’s patient gaze. His mouth clicks shut, as he swallows hard. They stand for a moment as Viktor’s brain reboots. Yuuri watching quietly. His hands behind his back.

“I just assumed your practice went over today, it’s not really that big of a deal.” Yuuri smiles at last cutting into the silence.

“Ah yes, sorry, practice was a mess today. We had kid I had to show around, and then Chris was late and then the kid didn’t have a ride, and…” Viktor pauses as he sees Yuuri’s expression remain unchanged, it felt too unrealistic that Yuuri could be this patent. “Yeah, sorry, this all sounds like lame excuses. I’m sorry for wasting your time. I’m sure your friend is worried--” Yuuri takes Viktor’s hand, Immediately shutting him up.

“Don’t apologize Makka, you were working, which is your job.” Yuuri’s fingers pat Viktors reassuringly. “Besides that I told my friend I’m going to be a bit late tonight.” Viktor may be seeing things that aren’t there in the shadows of dusk, but swears he can see a small light in Yuuri’s already blindingly bright eyes. Viktor loses himself in the twinkle behind them, hardly remembering what Yuuri had just said.

“How late?” Viktor thinks he hums, far more aware of Yuuri’s hands still wrapped around his own, as if a blanket from the chill autumn breeze. Those gloves are just as soft as they look, and twice as warm. Yuuri smiles softly, almost mischievously. 

“I don’t know yet.” Yuuri replies in a tone that catch’s Viktors breath. “What do you think?” Viktor is in fact not thinking, more like rapid fire thought blinking, nothing really settling down as his mind races ahead of him.

“I um, I don’t know either.” Viktor finally chuckles awkwardly, feeling a small grasp of reality falling back onto him once more. Yuuri, looks over Viktor’s face slowly, as if truly taking it in for the first time. 

“Do you feel like dinner? Maybe?” Yuuri offers. Viktor would love that more than air, and he currently isn’t breathing so that’s actually saying a lot.

“I haven’t had lunch,” Viktor recalls wistfully, “Dinner sounds devine.” Yuuri chuckles softly squeezing Viktor’s hand before at last letting him go in order to retrieve his bags from the cafe patio. Viktor breathes like he’s run a mile, placing his hand on his heart and feeling weak. 

They find a small restaurant which advertises the best steak in the city, in reality rating 3 out of 5 compared to one Viktor ate last week, but still managed to live up to the claim though not for the flavor. Viktor sat facing Yuuri, listening to his sweet voice, memorizing the way it could laugh. How is it that every movement this man makes, melts Viktor? 

All Viktor can guess is that Yuuri must be a witch who cast a spell on Viktor’s heart, cursing it to thump loudly whenever Yuuri is near. Yet he must be an angel for the smiles he gives so easily, and the overwhelming patients he has to stand Viktor. This man was the rare breed of angel witch, tempting him with purity and cursing him with a smile.

Their dinner wasn’t the highest quality, no, but Viktor knows no better place to have steak then sitting in Yuuri’s company. Even if every moment is blessed torture. Viktor sips at his water, hanging off every word of Yuuri’s story from when he was young, not even aware of his own smile as he is too absorbed in Yuuri’s. 

Viktor wonders softly why Yuuri leaves his hand on the table as he does, palm up almost as if asking for something, though Viktor has nothing to put in it. Viktor idly memorized the lines and ivory color of Yuuri’s palm for once not nestled in his gloves, when Yuuri straightens a little, pulling his phone out.

“Mind if I respond to this?” Yuuri asks apologetically. Viktor gives a slow nod.

“I don’t mind.” Viktor really doesn’t, Yuuri’s presence is more than he’d ever want for. Besides Viktor wants to memorize even the smallest of Yuuri's expressions, even if it's just the way he reads a text. Yuuri’s ears redden and Viktor decides he immediately changes his mind about phones, though he’d never admit it's because he's jealous. Yuuri places his phone down, looking at their mostly empty plates and fiddling with his fork.

“Makka, how would you like to go for a walk?” Yuuri asks, directing his voice at the last few french fries on his plate. Viktor wants to switch places with the violin seated in the chair next to Yuuri, but a walk sounds nice as well.

“Yes, anywhere in particular?” Viktor notes that Yuuri's gaze lifts, watching Viktor through his lashes, and over his glasses. Viktor is a relatively stoic man, but that face, that half blushing expression with his head cocked ever so slightly. That wrecks Viktor every time.

“I was thinking It’d be nice, to play a few songs together at the park.” Yuuri Tucks a hair behind his ear looking shyly to the side. Viktor nods, taking a much longer time to process the words than necessary. 

“Where you want to go, I will follow.” Viktor hums before immediately feeling overbearing and stupid. Yuuri laughs though so Viktor didn't mind so much.

“I’m happy to hear that.” 

Viktor hardly remembers much between the two points. going from dinner to the park, the walk felt so secluded, as if there were nothing but just the two of them walking in street lit silence. Viktor remembers seeing the lights shimmering in the park, a pavilion draped in tiny christmas bulbs. orange leaves glowing like dancing flames as the trees too lite up. A few people meander through the warm setting, couples strolling along the paths, children being walked past and babbling about the scene. Viktor can smell the crisp dry air, thinking of pumpkins and the musk of rotting leaves.

It is this feeling that he pulls across his bow, warm and light, the breeze nipping his bare fingers hinting at how they wanted to be played. Soft crunching leaves clapping an applause as he danced to the music spilling from his fingers. When had Viktor felt music like this? a waterfall, washing over him pulling him to the sea, swirling him around playfully, guiding to a wave, and rashing him on the shore. A feeling of warmth that fills him more than 40 coats could. He cannot recall. 

Viktor's eyes land on Yuuri's, watching him from the grass, his chin resting on his knees, understand Viktor thoroughly without exchanging a word. And for once Viktor isn't tongue tied. his meaning and thought conveying clear as day, his heart open, his defenses bare. Yuuri smiles, shy and warm, coming to his feet to tuck is violin under his chin, returning the conversation, replaying it in parts, then answering it with his own music.

And they sang, back and forth, music filling the cold evening, with bright and warm sounds. People may have staired, some likely stopping nearby, perhaps a couple or two, danced to their music in the pavilion. Viktor couldn't see them, his eyes watching only Yuuri, couldn't hear them, his music playing far too loudly of his love for Yuuri. No one else could possibly shine brighter. When the song ends there may have been clapping, but all Viktor can remember is the blush Yuuri gives him, understanding the confessions Viktor makes and feeling shy that the whole world heard it.

They play well into the evening, sometimes together, other times taking turns, all with very little words. To show appreciation they play high tittering notes, bubbly round sounds, to show thanks they play long and low holding notes and meeting each other's gaze. The only real communication made is Yuuri's hand on Viktor's shoulder, a second hand pressing to his lips.

“Listen.” Yuuri hums. Viktor does just this. Soft crickets, people chatting among themselves, all settling somewhere in the park. Viktor hears the wind rustling in the trees, whistling in the distance with a flirty howl. In the distance a hum of cars no longer a rumble, now a quiet reminder of the world beyond. Viktor swears he can hear Yuuri too, his presence feeling loud, a rumble of drums a strange string instrument giving off elegant oriental plinks. Yuuri sounds like coffee smells, like watching a fire on a winter's day, like hot chocolate tastes.

Viktor listens to the music Yuuri sturrs within Viktor, playing songs Viktor knows by heart and others he wishes he knew more of. He closes his eyes to hear them, feeling their sounds warming him. Vaguely he remembers Yuuri's hand guiding him to sit, then finding a place beside him. Viktor's not sure but he thinks Yuuri's closer than a friend should be, their hips practically touching only just enough space between them for their hands.

Viktor looks to the inky sky, thinking of how much it resembles Yuuri's hair. For a moment he thinks on what time it must be, wishing time could stop and let this moment last forever. The crickets, the wind, the starless sky, and Yuuri. Viktor chances a glance, seeing Yuuri's beautiful profile and wondering how on earth his life had come to meeting him. Viktor's eyes close thinking to the first moment he heard Yuuri play, then the exact moment he knew there was no one in the whole world to compare to Yuuri.

A soft pinky inches his way to Viktor’s hand tentatively hooking around Viktor's little finger. Viktor's not sure what to do, his hand, like the rest of him freezing up. Then just as shyly he slides his hand closer gripping Yuuri's pinky back. Viktor wants more, begging to hold Yuuri's hand, willing himself to have the courage to do so. Yuuri feels so close, so warm and soft, looking so inviting. Viktor is afraid to look at Yuuri anymore for fear of losing his sense and will. 

Yuuri's wrist shifts, turning to catch Viktor's hand, twining together their fingers without a word.

A new sound is added to the night. A shy hot blush rushing into Viktor's cheeks. they're holding hands, what else could that possibly mean. His heart thumps like a drum setting a tempo. Can Yuuri tell he’s shaking? can Yuuri hear his heart? Is his hand too heavy? Does Yuuri know Viktor is holding his breath? 

Viktor is a type of nervous he is unfamiliar with, his heart and body scream to run, but he isn't in the least bit stressed, unprepared, yes, but not in an anxious way. Viktor finds himself in a strange mix of terror and relaxation, curling into a confusing comfort. 

That's it! That's the word! Yuuri is comfortable. Huddling under the duvet on a snow day. Tiny cakes with tea. A feeling Viktor is confused by how long it took him to name. Viktor isn’t use to this, isn’t use to feeling so bare. Chris took years to feel relaxed around. Mila, Georgi, and Yakov were family but just about every other musician to cross his path rarely got past polite formality. But Yuuri? It has been a mere days with Yuuri and already Viktor feels as if they had always known each other.

Rich earthy brown eyes meet Viktor’s wearing a shy expression under a hooded gaze. Yuuri’s small smile is slight and inviting, making Viktors heart thump loud and heavy. Viktor sees those eyes, and all he can think is of love, how much he treasured Yuuri, wanted the absolute best for him. He looks at Yuuri and sees complete trust in his eyes. 

“Makka…” The name hits Viktor like bus. The name, that name that is not Viktor’s, curls out as a breath of a sound, dancing on Yuuri’s lips, soft, seductive. The name is biting, though it is just a sound, Viktor feels angry hearing it. Yuuri doesn’t speak anything more than he knows, but what he knows is a lie. This smile, that expression, those eyes, all of it is for a lie called Makka.

Yuuri trusts Viktor in ways he likely didn’t deserve, following him to a stranger's home, letting him know his life and routine. It is more than Viktor feels he deserves, more than a liar like him can lay claim to. Yuuri trusts him and what does Viktor give in exchange? Lies through his pretty little teeth. Making up “Makka” a dog of a man who lies about his diet and income. A man who plays at being likeable and friendly while lying about everything about himself. 

Worse of all? It worked. Out of all the lies, Yuuri still smiles at Viktor thinking that that mask is such a nice guy, being none the wiser of how much he is being fooled. And now that lie, originally just a cover to get closer, is so deep that there is no way Viktor can turn back now, not when Makka, is the one Yuuri likes, not when Yuuri holds the hand of Makka, grinning up at him looking so sweet and expecting.

What have I done?

“...Yuuri.” Viktor hears his heart, his mind screaming for him to stop thinking. He can’t look at Yuuri without feeling guilt now. It’s not something he even wants to sit through for a moment. Viktor feels sick, feels like at any moment Yuuri will know see Viktor’s eyes and realize what a fraud he is. Viktor can’t look at Yuuri without the guilt eating at him anymore. 

Viktor knows what he’ll have to do to dispel the knot in his gut and knows is beyond stupid. Because for all the lie was terrible, it is the only thing that keeps Viktor at Yuuri’s side. He can’t tell him the truth now when a lie is the only way to keep Yuuri here. Honesty would just chase Yuuri away. But even the warm feeling of Yuuri’s soft hand in Viktor’s, the oddly alluring smell of his shampoo Viktor had been drunk off just moments ago, now made Viktor feel worse.

“Yes…” Yuuri breathes, Viktor hardly registers, how close Yuuri is. His mind so full with an internal turmoil. He has to tell him, he can’t tell him. If he admits to lying Yuuri will forgive him, if he’s caught lying Yuuri will never speak to him again. Viktor wants to tell his mind to shut up to let him think, to clear enough for him to make a decision! 

Viktor can’t do it, he loves Yuuri too much to risk compromising his relationship with him, he cannot tell him the truth, not now not ever! Not when the lie made Yuuri so happy, Viktor couldn’t just take that from Yuuri. It isn’t fair no matter how much it made Viktor feel like crap, it was his own fault. He dug his hole, he would just have to die in it.

Viktor decides. The words are on his lips. Then, Yuuri’s beautiful hand pulls Viktors up, placing it on Yuuri’s plush and oh so soft cheek, looking deep into Viktor's eyes. And Viktor’s mind goes blank.

“I’m Viktor Nikiforov.” Viktor wishes he can say a weight is lifted from his shoulders, but Yuuri’s expression only makes him feel heavier. His pretty lips open, then close slowly at a loss of how to react. Viktor can’t speak, he doesn’t need to, Viktor knows exactly how to prove it to Yuuri. Viktor pulls his hand from Yuuri’s cheek, reaching up and with a slow and smooth movement, removes the beanie from his head. Viktor’s signature long silver locks fall into the wind, dropping the curtain on the act of Makka once and for all.

Yuuri’s eyes widen, his jaw dropping, looking over Viktor shaking his head, speechless. At last his mouth moves to speak. Or Viktor assumes that’s what is what Yuuri intends, as that very moment the sky exploded in red and yellow sparks. Booming loud and overwhelming over the park enveloping the dim evening in the colored lights of fireworks.

Yuuri’s lips move, but Viktor can’t hear a thing.

“What!” Viktor calls, trying to cut through the noise leaning forward. Yuuri Sits up, pulling back as if Viktor might bite him.

“You lied to me!” Yuuri’s voice is sharper than he intends, trying to overcome the sound and coming off loud and more angry than intended. Viktor feels the words cut deep regardless of emotion, feeling a sudden urge run and hide.

“I did!”

“Did Chris know!”

“Y-yes…”

“Why!?” Yuuri’s face looks so betrayed, that Viktor can’t look, he’d been right, he shouldn’t have said anything. Yuuri looks so frustrated, so agitated, and annoyed. Viktor was wrong, and now was being scolded by the one person in the world he’d never want to upset.

“I… I didn’t want to… lose you” Viktor stumbles just as a rapid fire screating sound pierced the sky. 

“What!” Yuuri yells over the sound in a tone that makes Viktor cringe. 

“I’m so sorry!” Viktor leans closer, trying to take Yuuris hand, to explain why he had to, why he needed Yuuri at his side that he never meant for it to go this far. Yuuri snatchs his hand away, pushing himself to his feet. 

“Why would you lie then!” Yuuri yells, then covers his face muttering something. Viktor leans closer to hear better. “Were you making fun of me?” Yuuri yells, no longer unintentionally sounding mad, now a thousand degree flamie of pissed. 

“No!” Viktor says, but Yuuri either doesn’t hear or can't care. 

“That I could Idolize someone, and not even realise I was playing beside him?” Yuuri looks so disgusted, Viktor thinks that liar’s guilt would have been a thousand times better.

“No! Yuuri,” Viktor reaches for Yuuri, Yuuri pulls away, snatching up his Violin. Viktor felt like he had lost the sun.

“Then why on earth would you lie about something dumb like that! Why would you lie about anything at all?” Yuuri moves away, looking over Viktor with eyes that look so confused and angry. Viktor pulls himself to his feet holding his arms out to Yuuri. 

“Yuuri please listen.” Viktor begs Yuuri steps back narrowing his eyes.

“Why? So you can lie to me?” Yuuri scoffs. Viktor is taken aback, everything is going wrong fast and Yuuri is moving farther and farther away. “God i’ve made such a fool of myself…”

“Yuuri! No! I just! I wanted to play beside you without people thinking I was Viktor!” Viktor tries to explain.

“Didn't want to be seen playing on the streets with some poor street performer huh, wow makes me feel better.”

“Yuuri I didn't-” Yuuri takes a step away shaking his head. “Don't go!”

“I’m sorry, Makka.” Yuuri shakes his head backing away farther. “Viktor…” Yuuri pauses, looking into Viktor’s eyes, a pleading expression almost worse than the yelling. “Why?” the only thought Viktor could think, the only excuse Viktor had, felt cheap now. He felt it was all that he had. 

“I… I love you.” Viktor didn't recognize his own voice, the words rang out in between waves, every sound clear, and impossible to ignore. Yuuri’s back straightened red and blue light reflecting on his cheek from the fireworks. His mouth opened. Then closed. The rage bouncing back now, his fists bawled at his sides eyes watering looking as if he couldn’t decide whether to hit Viktor, or cry. Viktor would rather Yuuri break every bone in his body than make Yuuri cry. 

“I get it now…” Yuuri started, swallowing hard. “You think it’s fun watching people cry?” It was hell, Viktor wanted to leap on the fireworks and be blown to pieces than have had done any of this. 

“I would never…”

“God, I’m so stupid.” Yuuri pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes trying not to break down.

“No Yuuri you’re-” Viktor attempted, but Yuuri lifted his hand abruptly. 

“You know what? Shut up.”

“Yuuri! Please!” Viktor took a step forward. “I’m still me.” Yuuri took a step back.

“You say that like I know what that means.”

“Yuuri-”

“Stop saying my name like it means something to you.” of everything Yuuri had said, that bit the most. Yuuri did mean something to him, Yuuri meant everything to him… and in one fail swoop, Viktor had managed to send the opposite message across.

Viktor watches Yuuri struggling to figure out what to do, one wrong word from running away from or decking Viktor. There had never been a person more than perfect than Yuuri, Viktor had never before though one could need someone before. And now, he watched the very same person he loved so dearly at the very brink of tears because of Viktor.

“I can't believe I let this happen again…. Phichit was wrong. Musicians are all the same…” Yuuri pressed his fist against his eyes.

“W-what?”

“You know why Viktor is my hero?” Yuuri asks. He didn't wait for an answer. “Because even when his closest friend betrayed him he kept playing… and I thought wow I want to be that brave.” Yuuri closed his eyes breathing softly trying to stop himself from crying.

“Yuuri… I…” Viktor started. Yuuri waved his hand.

“Now I see, Viktor isn't brave, he’s just as selfish as everyone else.” Yuuri met Viktors gaze sending daggers and hell fire. “I thought I found the one concert performer who wasn't up their own ass. Aren't I just a big idiot….” Yuuri laughed, choking on a sob as he covered his face. Viktor wanted to run up and say all the right things to reassure Yuuri, but he had never knew how to speak, only how to play. Viktor knew if he stayed if he spoke, Yuuri would only get hurt so he didn't speak at all.

It’s a little hazy, Viktor find his Viola in his hands, and notes himself walking away, Yuuri spoke and Viktor only sped up, breaking into a proper run. 

Viktor's mind is a mess, telling him to turn back and talk to Yuuri, to explain completely how much he loved Yuuri, how much he never wanted to have anything bad happen to him, how the only thing Viktor wanted on earth was to see Yuuri’s smile. Finding the sentiment only made him run harder. They could have been kissing under the fireworks, even if Viktor would have been guilty, at least Yuuri could've been obliviously happy instead of upset and hurt so badly. What kind of monster was Viktor to make something as beautiful as Yuuri cry. Viktor can’t even think about it without pain etching it’s way inside his soul, maring him with a permanent reminder.

Why are you running away? Yuuri might still listen. Why can’t you face it like a man! Running only makes this conversation harder you fool!

Viktor runs farther, faster. His mind racing his heart thumping, running until his lungs threatened to tear from his chest. He doesn’t know where he is, he doesn’t particularly care. He finds a wall to lean on and tries to breathe pressing Yuuri’s words back hearing only his own thoughts loud and clear.

Coward.

Liar.

Ass

The words play though his mind in Yuuri’s voice, thumping painfully against his mind, with every thump of his heart. Viktor had wanted Yuuri to see him for who he truly is and then the moment he did, just ran away?! Viktor turns back to the direction he came. Rationalizing going back telling Yuuri he’s so sorry, facing the fire of Yuuri’s rage, and firmly talking his heart his mind his soul, explaining that it was all out of love.

Would you lie about your dog to the man you loved? Would you lead the man you love along with lie after lie? Would you lie about your friends, and lifestyle for love?

Are these the actions of someone who loves someone?

Not even Viktor can rationalize it, and he’d been the one to lie. How could Yuuri react any other way? How could Viktor ever expect Yuuri to understand why he lied about his entire life if Viktor couldn’t even rationalize it? Viktor slid down the brick wall, burying his face in his knees.

He had brought out a sore spot with Yuuri that he would have avoided if he hadn't been afraid of his own damn fame. And now the best thing to happen to him hated him more than he knew anyone could hate.

Viktor heard the last thing Yuuri called after him again and knew there was no hope left for mending this relationship.

“Run, run and never show me your face again.”

How can Viktor play a song to a man with his fingers in his ears?

It was truly over quick and loud as the fireworks, Viktor had lost the one man he trusted to love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sup! it's been a while. I've moved across the U.S. and finished my fall semester of school since the last chapter was posted of this but hey wassup.  
> Finals are nearly done so i forced myself to press out a chapter for this AU too. i plan on adding a chapter to all winter break as i have I found out i can only work on one thing during a semester.  
> This semester I wrote an entry for the soft Viktor zine [Kamome](https://gumroad.com/kamomezine?lang=en) it's full of great artiest and writers interpretation of just how soft Viktor can be, and is so freaking cute, my dudes.  
> They are currently (12/8/2017) running a give away for the full book and charm set! so if you got a [twitter](https://twitter.com/softviktorzine/status/939254360751656960?lang=en) or [tumblr](https://softviktorzine.tumblr.com/post/168337284654/softviktorzine-its-giveaway-time-reblog?lang=en) you should enter and try your luck.  
> I hope you all have a wonderful day enjoy your winter break and drink lots of water~  
> Love Beans.


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